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EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  WRITINGS 


CHARLES    A.    CHEEVER,    M.D. 


WITH  A  MEMOm. 


2^'i>"V 


EXTRACTS 


FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OP 


CHARLES  A.   CHEEVER,   M.D. 


WI  TH     AMEMOIR 


A.  P.  PEABODY. 


IPrtnUli  for  prifiate  C{rtulatton. 


BOSTON : 

PRINTED   BY  JOHN   WILSON   &   SON, 

22,  School  Street. 

1854. 


CONTENTS. 


FAOE. 

MBHom 1 

An  Addkess  on  the  Death  of  Alfbed  Mason, 

DELIVEKED   AT   THE   FoRENSIC  HaIL  IN  POBTS- 
MOUTH 53 

An    Oeation    deliveked    in    Poetsmouth,    on 

July  4,  1825 90 

Does  Hope  or  Reality  contribute  most  to 
Human  Happiness? 117 

Excuses  foe  the  Neglect  of  Religion    .    .    .     132 

On  the  Importance  of  Personal  Religion  to 
Happiness  in  this  World 156 

Religion  of  Every- day  Importance     ....     184 

Is  the  Eclat  of  Military  Fame  founded 
either  on  Sound  Reason  or  on  Moral 
Pbinciplb? 202 

The  Immortality  of  the  Mind 218 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAOB. 

Speech  at  a  Meeting  of  the  Portsmouth 
Unitakian  Association 276 

Speech  at  a  Meetino  in  behalf  of  the  Estab- 
lishment OP  A  State  Lunatic  Asylum     .     .    287 

Speech  at  an  Annual  Meeting  op  the  Ports- 
mouth  Seamen's  Friend  Society     ....    298 


MEMOIR. 


M  E  M  0  I  R. 


The  name  of  Cheever  was  probably  first 
brought  to  New  England  by  that  justly 
celebrated  classical  teacher,  Ezekiel  Chee- 
ver, who  came  to  this  country  in  1637; 
exercised  his  profession  successively  in 
New  Haven,  Ipswich,  Charlestown,  and 
Boston ;  and  died  in  1708,  at  the  age  of  94. 
Thomas  Cheever,  one  of  his  descendants, 
became,  early  in  the  last  century,  an  in- 
habitant of  the  part  of  Lynn  now  consti- 
tuting the  town  of  Saugus,  and  established 
his  abode  on  the  estate  which  still  bears 
the  family  name.  His  grandson,  Abijah 
Cheever,  was  graduated  at  Harvard  Uni- 
1 


4  MEMOIR. 

versity  in  1779,  and,  after  the  usual  period 
of  professional  study,  enlisted  as  a  surgeon 
on  board  a  private  armed  vessel  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  United  States.  He  was  taken 
prisoner  by  a  British  cruiser,  and,  after  va- 
rious and  perilous  adventures,  was  finally 
exchanged  by  cartel,  and  restored  to  his 
friends.  He  then  established  himself  in 
the  practice  of  medicine  in  Boston.  He 
married  Elizabeth  Scott.  Their  children, 
both  born  in  Boston,  were  Elizabeth,  who 
still  lives  on  the  ancestral  estate  in  Saugus ; 
and  Charles  Augustus,  the  subject  of  this 
memoir. 

Charles  was  born  on  the  first  of  De- 
cember, 1793.  When  he  was  nineteen 
months'  old,  his  mother,  who  is  remem- 
bered as  a  woman  of  uncommon  personal 
beauty  and  loveliness  of  character,  was 
removed  by  death.  He  was  at  once  taken 
in  charge  by  his  father's  sister,  resident  at 


MEMOIR.  d 

Saugiis.  To  her  he  was  largely  indebted 
for  the  early  development  of  his  moral 
nature  and  his  religious  susceptibilities. 
Endowed  with  a  strong  mind,  imbued 
with  the  firmest  principles,  and  cherishing 
hardly  less  than  a  mother's  love  for  her 
orphan  nephew,  she  made  it  her  sedulous 
and  successful  endeavor  to  impress  him 
with  a  deep  sense  of  his  accountability, 
an  undeviating  regard  to  truth  and  jus- 
tice, and  a  profound  reverence  for  God 
and  for  things  sacred.  His  childhood  was 
marked  by  no  striking  incident,  except  that 
in  his  third  year  he  was  rescued,  at  the 
last  moment,  from  a  condition  of  immi- 
nent peril.  In  playing  with  some  lambs 
near  the  house,  he  was  tempted  to  follow 
them  into  a  swamp,  where  he  was  found 
at  night,  after  several  hours'  search,  sunk 
to  his  chin  in  water,  and  nearly  exhausted. 
He  continued  at  Saugus  till  he  entered 
college,  except  during  the  brief  period  of 


4  MEMOIR. 

his  father's  second  marriage.  He  was 
thus  educated  in  a  rural  neighborhood, 
with  simple  tastes  and  habits,  and  among 
people  who  retained,  to  a  great  degree, 
the  primitive  manners  and  character  of 
the  New  England  yeomanry.  He  was 
universally  beloved  by  those  of  every  age, 
and  was  regarded  almost  as  a  member  of 
every  family  circle  within  the  range  of  his 
acquaintance.  His  leisure  hours  were 
spent  in  cultivating  his  garden,  and  in 
such  rural  employments  and  recreations 
as  his  secluded  residence  offered.  Frank- 
ness, generosity,  delicacy,  and  purity  were 
the  prominent  traits  of  his  boyhood. 

He  was  fortunate  in  his  teacher.  He 
was  prepared  for  college  under  the  tuition 
of  the  clergyman  of  the  place.  Rev.  Mr. 
Frothingham,  (subsequently  of  Belfast, 
Me.,),  an  accomplished  scholar,  whose 
worth  was  only  equalled  by  his  modesty, 
and  who  would  have  achieved  the  lite- 


MEMOIR.  O 

rary  and  professional  distinction  he  de- 
served, had  his  appreciation  of  his  own 
powers  corresponded  with  the  esteem  in 
which  he  was  held  by  all  who  knew  him. 
There  grew  up  a  life-long  attachment,  of 
the  closest  character,  between  him  and 
his  pupil ;  and  we  well  remember  how, 
when  sinking  under  the  infirmities  of 
helpless  age,  he  kindled  into  unwonted 
animation  at  the  mere  mention  of  Chee- 
ver's  name,  and  rehearsed  numerous  inci- 
dents and  traits  of  his  early  life,  which 
showed  us  how.  veritably  "  the  child  was 
father  of  the  man."  On  the  other  hand, 
his  pupil  always  spoke  of  him  with  the 
profoundest  veneration  and  the  warmest 
affection,  and  was  wont  to  ascribe  to  his 
example  and  influence  many  of  the 
choicest  intellectual  impulses  and  moral 
principles  that  shaped  and  guided  his 
course  in  after  life.  They  met  for  the 
last  time,  when  the  shadow  of  death  was 


O  MEMOIR. 

visibly  gathering  over  the  elder,  and  im- 
perceptibly stealing  upon  the  younger ; 
and  but  a  few  months  elapsed  before  they 
were  united  in  closer  society,  where  the 
farewell  is  never  uttered. 

Cheever  entered  Harvard  University  in 
1809,  and  was  graduated  in  1813.  Here 
he  was  a  good,  but  not  a  distinguished 
scholar.  He  was  punctual  and  regular  in 
the  discharge  of  his  college  duties,  and 
passed  through  that  fearful  ordeal  with 
his  purity  unsullied,  his  ingenuousness  un- 
impaired, and  his  conscientious  regard  to 
duty  strengthened  by  trial.  His  class- 
mates speak  of  him  as  a  general  favorite, 
and  as  having  been  most  esteemed  by 
those  whose  esteem  was  best  worth  hav- 
ing. As  is  msually  the  case,  he  cherished 
his  college  intimacies  and  friendships  with 
peculiar  fondness  so  long  as  he  lived ;  and, 
beyond  his  immediate  family,  there  were 
few  whose  names  were  so  often  on   his 


MEMOIR.  / 

lips,  or  seemed  to  hold  a  dearer  place  in 
his  memory,  than  those  of  Brazer,  Savage, 
Adams,  and  Ware,  and  others  among  the 
dead  and  the  living  whom  we  might 
enumerate. 

On  leaving  college,  he  immediately  en- 
tered his  name  as  a  student  of  medicine 
with  Dr.  John  Warren,  then  Professor  of 
Anatomy  and  Surgery  in  the  University. 
His  choice  of  a  profession  probably  re- 
sulted, not  alone  from  sympathy  with  his 
father,  but  also  from  a  latent  conscious- 
ness of  natural  aptitude.  Its  studies  were 
congenial  to  his  taste,  and  at  once  called 
into  exercise  whatever  of  intellectual  ener- 
gy had  been  dormant  during  his  college 
life,  so  that  he  distinguished  himself 
equally  for  his  thoroughness  us  a  student 
and  for  his  keenness  as  an  observer  of  the 
morbid  aspects  of  humanity.  Yet  he  en- 
tered upon  his  novitiate  with  sensibilities 
so  tender,  as  to  occasion  him  great  men- 


8  MEMOIR. 

tal  suffering  in  his  early  conversance  with 
scenes  of  distress,  and  to  awaken  more 
than  once  the  purpose  of  abandoning  his 
chosen  vocation.  Indeed,  in  this  regard, 
his  subsequent  experience  only  gave  him 
strength  of  nerve,  without  rendering  him 
less  susceptible  of  painful  emotion;  and 
those  who  enjoyed  his  services  were  well 
aware  that  his  assumed  nonchalance  of 
manner  was  but  a  thin  cloak  for  sympa- 
thies as  true  and  deep  as  ever  heaved  a 
human  heart.  On  the  death  of  Dr.  War- 
ren in  the  spring  of  1815,  he  transferred 
his  relations  as  a  student  to  Dr.  John  B. 
Brown,  the  son-in-law  of  his  first  precep- 
tor, and  became,  at  the  same  time,  an 
inmate  of  his  family.  At  this  period,  the 
entire  dispejisary  practice  of  Boston  was 
in  the  hands  of  Dr.  Brown ;  and  Cheever, 
as  his  eldest  pupil,  was  constantly  em- 
ployed in  this  service,  thus  having  a 
larger  opportunity  for  clinical  study  than 


MEMOIR. 


9 


fell  to  the  lot  of  any  other  young  man 
in  New  England.  In  this  field  of  duty, 
he  manifested  at  once  his  characteristic 
humanity,  and  a  skill  and  prudence  be- 
yond his  years.  Large  numbers  of  the 
foreign  population  of  Boston  were  under 
his  charge,  and  in  his  professional  walks 
he  became  intimate  with  the  saintly  Che- 
verus ;  and  it  was  often  his  privilege  to 
be  the  minister  of  healing  in  wretched 
abodes,  where  the  good  Bishop,  with  his 
own  hands,  lighted  the  fire,  prepared  the 
gruel,  and  smoothed  the  pillow.  Such  a 
colleague  must  have  been  invaluable  to 
the  young  practitioner,  in  hallowing  for 
his  regard  the  various  ills  of  afflicted 
humanity,  and  in  dictating  those  delicate 
attentions,  which  ever  after  rendered  his 
science  and  skill  doubly  precious  and 
availing. 

After  taking  his   medical    degree.   Dr. 
Cheever    made   a    voyage    to    the   West 


10  MEMOIR. 

Indies,  mainly  for  the  purpose  of  intro- 
ducing vaccination  as  a  preventative  for 
the  smallpox;  for,  though  Jenner's  first 
treatise  had  been  issued  eighteen  years 
previously,  his  discovery  had  worked  its 
way  into  adoption  very  slowly  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic.  He  took  with  him 
a  healthy  Irish  boy  just  vaccinated,  to 
furnish  the  virus  which  was  to  constitute 
his  capital;  and  in  this  matter  he  was 
dependent  on  the  kind  offices  of  his  excel- 
lent friend.  Bishop  Cheverus,  who  procured 
for  him  his  subject,  brought  him  on  board 
the  vessel,  religiously  commended  him  to 
his  watch  and  ward,  and  knelt  over  him 
on  the  deck,  to  confer  his  apostolic  bless- 
ing. Of  this  voyage  we  have  no  record, 
and  only  know  that  it  was  attended  with 
success  as  to  its  main  purpose,  and  was 
regarded  as  happy  and  profitable,  for  its 
opportunities  of  observation  and  profes- 
sional experience. 


MEMOIR.  11 

In  the  autumn  of  1816,  Dr.  Cheever 
established  himself  in  the  practice  of 
medicine  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  where  he 
was  favorably  introduced  by  a  classmate, 
extensively  connected  with  families  that 
occupied  a  prominent  place  in  business 
and  in  social  Ufe.  His  earliest  practice 
was  in  this  circle,  and  from  the  first  he 
gained  the  strongest  hold  on  the  con- 
fidence and  affection  of  his  patients. 
There  were  several  families  in  which, 
from  that  time  to  the  day  of  his  death, 
no  other  physician  was  employed ;  and 
it  was  one  of  the  rarest  events  for  a 
person  or  a  family,  who  had  once  had 
experience  of  his  skill,  to  look  elsewhere 
for  advice,  unless  in  case  of  the  adoption 
of  one  of  the  more  recent  systems  of 
practice.  But  his  professional  progress 
was  very  slow.  He  found  several  emi- 
nent physicians  already  in  the  field. 
There  were   the   Drs.   Cutter,  father  and 


12  MEMOIR. 

son,  whose  reputation  rested  equally  on 
mature  scientific  knowledge,  successful 
experience,  and  amenity  of  manners  and 
character;  and,  after  their  death,  there 
remained  Dr.  Pierrepont,  who  united  to 
the  highest  grade  of  professional  skill, 
the  culture  of  a  finished  scholar,  and  the 
graces  of  a  saint.  Neither  with  these  nor 
with  his  coevals  was  Dr.  Cheever  ever 
willing  to  assume  the  position  of  a  rival 
or  competitor.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
as  careful  of  his  brethren's  fair  fame  as 
his  own,  and  was  solicitous  only  for  such 
business  as  might  come  to  him  by  the 
unbiassed  choice  of  his  patients.  To- 
ward Dr.  Pierrepont  he  maintained  a 
strictly  filial  attitude;  and,  as  the  infirmi- 
ties of  old  age  essentially  impaired  his 
bodily  faculties,  while  his  mind  remained 
sound,  clear,  and  strong,  it  was  Dr.  Chee- 
ver's  delight  to  be  to  him  as  eyes,  ears, 
hands,  and  feet,  and  to  preserve  for  him. 


MEMOIR.         '  13 

as  far  as  possible,  his  full  circle  of  practice, 
by  relieving  him  of  its  burdensome  labors, 
by  bringing  and  keeping  the  facts  con- 
nected with  each  case  before  his  distinct 
cognizance,  and  by  performing,  in  his 
stead,  such  operations  as  demanded  keen- 
ness of  vision  or  strength  of  nerve,  thus 
prolonging  his  usefulness,  and  securing 
for  him  its  appropriate  revenue. 

In  various  ways,  Dr.  Cheever's  keen 
sense  of  honor  and  native  delicacy  un- 
doubtedly interfered  with  his  apparent 
advancement  during  the  earlier  years  of 
his  residence  at  Portsmouth  ;  but  it  was 
only  to  ensure  for  him  a  higher  and  more 
permanent  position  in  the  esteem  of  the 
whole  community.  The  popularity  which 
he  would  not  stoop  or  turn  aside  to  seek, 
overtook  him  in  good  time.  He  gradu- 
ally won  his  way  to  the  very  foremost 
rank  in  point  of  professional  reputation, 
and  the  demands  on  his  skill  were  limited 


14  MEMOIR. 

in  number  and  in  extent  of  territory  only 
by  his  ability  to  meet  them. 

On  the  8th  of  July,  1823,  he  was  mar- 
ried to  Ann  Mary  Haven,  daughter  of 
John  Haven,  Esq.,  an  eminent  merchant 
in  Portsmouth,  and  sister  of  the  class- 
mate whose  friendship  had  been  his  chief 
motive  in  the  choice  of  a  place  of  settle- 
ment. In  her  he  enjoyed,  for  a  brief 
period,  all  the  domestic  happiness  that 
can  fall  to  the  lot  of  man.  Gentle,  sym- 
pathetic, devout,  uniting  with  high  intel- 
lectual cultivation,  the  most  attractive 
graces  of  character,  she  at  once  satisfied 
his  ideal  of  female  loveliness  and  excel- 
lence; and,  alike  by  her  life  and  by  its 
hallowed  memories,  aided  largely  in  the 
development  of  all  that  was  noble,  pure, 
and  true  in  his  own  spirit.  But  the  deep- 
est '  shadows  gathered  early  upon  their 
home.  On  the  4th  of  July,  1826,  she 
died,  leaving  two  orphan  boys,  the  young- 


MEMOIR.  15 

est  an  infant  but  a  few  days  old.  His 
agony  of  grief  at  her  departure  was  in- 
tense, —  almost  beyond  endurance  ;  and 
for  a  long  time,  while  he  shrank  not  from 
his  full  measure  of  duty  and  responsi- 
bility, the  world  seemed  to  him  desolate, 
and  life  a  weariness.  Indeed,  though 
subsequently  his  home  was  again  made 
happy,  the  wound-marks  of  this  first 
heavy  grief  were  never  effaced,  his  spirits 
never  recovered  their  former  elasticity  and 
buoyancy,  and  the  anniversary  of  his  be- 
reavement was  ever  after  a  day  of  deep 
solemnity  and  chastened  sorrow.  In  Oc- 
tober, 1830,  he  was  married  to  Adeline 
Haven,  the  sister  of  his  first  wife,  and, 
for  the  residue  of  his  days,  his  helper  in 
every  good  work,  the  devoted  mother  of 
his  children,  his  supporter  and  comforter 
under  every  trial  and  burden,  and  the 
tender  and  assiduous  nurse  of  his  in- 
firmity and  decline.     By  this  marriage  he 


16  MEMOIR. 

had  four  children,  all  of  whom  but  the 
eldest  died  in  infancy. 

These  repeated  bereavements,  though 
borne  with  Christian  resignation,  were 
most  profoundly  felt ;  for,  in  addition  to 
a  father's  love,  he  had  a  strong  sympa- 
thy with  childhood,  and  took  almost  a 
mother's  delight  in  all  the  phenomena  off 
the  powers  and  affections  in  the  earliest 
stages  of  their  development.  To  what 
he  had  thus  suffered  in  his  own  family, 
his  friends  were  no  doubt  largely  in- 
debted for  his  signal  tenderness  and 
assiduity  in  the  professional  treatment  of 
their  children;  and  for  a  sympathy  with 
them,  in  crises  of  apprehension  and  grief 
similar  to  those  that  had  occurred  in  his 
own  experience,  for  which,  hardly  less  than 
for  his  promptness  and  skill,  he  won  their 
lasfing  attachment  and  gratitude.  But 
still  severer  domestic  trial  was  appointed 
to  him.      In    the    summer  of   1838,   his 


MEMOIR.  17 

second  son,  then  a  lad  of  twelve  years, 
was  drowned  while  bathing  in  the  Piscata- 
qua  River.  The  body  was  soon  recovered, 
and,  with  a  coolness  and  intrepidity  never 
surpassed,  he  took  the  lead  in  the  measures 
employed  for  his  restoration;  but,  when 
they  were  found  unavailing,  he  seemed,  for 
the  time,  entirely  prostrated  in  body  and 
mind.  For  a  long  time  afterward,  he 
was  in  an  infirm  state  of  health.  But 
he  was  not  wont  to  yield  to  depression. 
He  rather  sought  a  remedy  for  his  own 
griefs  in  a  more  devoted  attention  to  those 
whom  it  was  his  ministry  to  succor  and 
relieve;  yet,  by  the  bed  of  suffering  and 
death,  and  in  his  intercourse  with  the  af- 
flicted, there  was  always  that  in  his  man- 
ner which  reminded  those  around  him 
how  deeply  he  had  suffered. 

Of  incidents  that  can  be  written  for  the 
public  eye,  the  quiet  routine  of  his  profes- 
sional life  was  necessarily  barren.     Yet  of 


18  MEMOIR. 

those  memorials  of  his  skill,  assiduity,  and 
kindness,  which  neither  time  nor  eternity 
can  efface,  were  we  to  commence  the  re- 
cord, the  pen  would  drop  in  utter  weari- 
ness before  our  materials  grew  sensibly 
less.  The  events  that  left  the  deepest 
traces  in  his  heart  were  the  deaths  of 
those  with  whom  he  had  been  most  inti- 
mately associated.  In  1833,  he  was  called 
to  part  from  his  pastor.  Rev.  Dr.  Parker, 
for  whom  he  cherished  all  of  a  brother's 
affection,  and  whose  long  illness  had  been 
cheered  by  his  daily  visits,  and  his  unre- 
mitted services  as  a  physician  and  friend. 
Between  Dr.  Parker  and  himself  there 
were  numerous  points  of  resemblance,  as 
there  had  been  many  years  of  the  closest 
intimacy.  They  were  alike  in  openness 
and  transparency  of  character,  in  the  ab- 
horrence of  pretence  and  affectation,  and 
in  straightforward  simplicity  of  address 
and  manner.      They  had  ministered  to- 


MEMOIR.  19 

gether  almost  constantly  among  the  sick 
and  dying,  with  the  entire  mutual  con- 
fidence, befitting  the  members  of  two 
professions,  whose  functions  are  so  in- 
separably intermingled,  and  each  of  which, 
without  overstepping  its  own  province, 
may  so  essentially  further  the  other's  pur- 
poses. The  habits  of  intercourse  thus 
formed,  and  the  mutual  attachment  thence 
resulting,  had  been  strengthened  during 
the  season  of  Dr.  Cheever's  bereavement 
and  loneliness,  when  the  good  pastor's 
devoted  attention  and  kindness  claimed 
and  won  for  him  more  than  a  brother's 
place  in  the  desolated  household.  His 
death,  therefore,  constituted  a  strongly- 
marked  and  melancholy  epoch  in  the  life, 
of  which  we  are  now  gathering  the  memo- 
rials. 

Perhaps  still  more  severely  felt,  —  as  it 
came  upon  him  under  the  consciousness 
that  his  own  life  was  rapidly  waning, — 


20  MEMOIR. 

was  the  sudden  decease,  in  1852,  of  John 
W.  Foster,  who  was  for  many  years  Dr. 
Cheever's  most  intimate  associate  and 
friend.  Unlike  in  temperament,  often  dif- 
fering in  opinion ;  the  one  slow,  wary,  self- 
distrustful,  the  other  ardent  and  sanguine ; 
they  were  kindred  spirits  in  their  love  of 
goodness,  in  their  advocacy  of  the  right 
and  the  true,  and  in  numerous  plans  of 
benevolent  effort  for  individuals  and  the 
community.  They  met  almost  daily,  and 
their  habitual  discourse  was  of  the  highest 
themes  of  thought,  and  the  profoundest 
experiences  of  the  inner  life.  Dr.  Cheever 
seemed  to  regard  his  friend's  departure 
almost  as  his  own  death-summons,  felt 
detached  from  the  world  by  his  removal, 
and  during  the  residue  of  his  life  constantly 
spoke  of  reunion  with  him  as  among  the 
foremost  thoughts  and  hopes  connected 
with  the  heavenly  society. 

His  surviving  children  were  educated,  to 


MEMOIR.  31 

an  almost  unprecedented  degree,  under  his 
own  supervision.  He  reviewed  with  them 
the  studies  of  his  youth.  He  was  their  com- 
panion and  helper  in  their  recreations.  He 
was  careful  to  make  home  the  happiest  place 
for  them,  the  centre  of  their  enjoyment,  the 
spot  around  which  the  choicest  remem- 
brances of  their  early  days  should  cluster. 
While  he  maintained  a  father's  dignity, 
and  failed  not  of  the  deference,  reverence, 
and  honor  which  are  a  father's  due,  his 
intercourse  with  them  was  that  of  an  elder 
brother.  For  the  last  few  years  of  his  life, 
they  were  necessarily  separated  from  him. 
The  eldest  left  him  in  1840,  to  commence 
a  business-life  under  better  auspices  than 
was  possible  in  his  native  town ;  and  the 
youngest  son  entered  Harvard  College  in 
1848.  But,  while  he  felt  their  absence 
most  keenly,  he  had  abundant  reason  to 
rejoice  in  their  merited  success  in  their 
respective  walks  in  life,  and  in  home  at- 


22  MEMOIR. 

tachments  only  strengthened  by  the  neces- 
sity which  cast  their  lot  elsewhere. 

Those  who  enjoyed  his  professional 
services  in  seasons  of  illness  and  suffering, 
little  knew  to  what  an  extent  his  tender 
sympathy  with  them  was  the  result  of 
fellow-feeling.  But  so  it  was.  For  more 
than  twenty  years,  he  was  aware  of  the 
insidious  and  inevitable  progress  of  the  dis- 
ease that  terminated  his  life.  A  cancerous 
tumor  of  the  intestines,  beyond  the  power 
of  medical  relief,  and  commencing  where 
surgical  aid  could  have  been  of  no  avail, 
was  during  this  period  slowly  developing 
itself.  At  times  it  occasioned  the  most 
excruciating  pain,  and  left  him  intervals, 
never  of  entire,  but  only  of  comparative 
ease.  But,  unwilling  to  awaken  anxiety 
in  his  behalf,  or  to  impair  the  enjoyment  of 
those  around  him,  he  suffered  in  silence. 
Most  of  his  friends  supposed  him  in  vigor- 
ous health ;  and  his  own  family  only  knew 


MEMOIR.  23 

that  he  was  laboring  under  some  internal 
disease,  but  were  wholly  unaware  of  its 
magnitude  and  its  dangerous  nature.  At 
length  it  reached  a  stage,  at  which  the 
alternative  was  immediate  dissolution,  or  a 
series  of  delicate  and  perilous  surgical  ope- 
rations. On  the  19th  of  May,  1852,  he 
conceived  and  announced  his  resolution  to 
put  himself  under  the  care  of  the  surgeons 
of  the  Massachusetts  General  Hospital. 
On  the  next  day  he  visited  his  patients  as 
usual,  gave  the  most  minute  directions  for 
their  management  during  his  absence,  com- 
mended them  to  the  care  of  a  younger  pro- 
fessional brother,  and  left  his  home  with  a 
strong  presentiment  that  he  should  never 
cross  his  own  threshold  again.  He  re- 
mained at  the  hospital  three  months,  under 
the  care  of  Dr.  J.  Mason  Warren,  and  un- 
derwent three  successive  operations  for  the 
reduction  of  the  tumor,  which  it  was  found 
impossible  to  extirpate. 


24  MEMOIR. 

At  this  stage  of  our  narrative,  we  cannot 
deny  ourselves  the  satisfaction  of  introduc- 
ing a  few  extracts  from  his  letters,  written 
in  a  recumbent  posture,  and  in  great  weak- 
ness and  pain,  and  indicating  the  cheerful 
and  hopeful  spirit  in  which  he  sustained 
his  sufferings. 

/  To  Mr. 


Boston,  Massachusetts  General  Hospital, 
Saturday,  May  22. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  Having  recovered  a  little 
from  the  sudden  somerset  I  made  on  Thursday, 
I  suppose  you  would  like  to  know  how  it  came 
about,  and  where  is  my  whereabouts.  On  Tues- 
day, Wednesday,  and  Thursday  nights,  I  passed 
very  miserable  ones ;  the  last  so  much  so,  that  I 
had  conceived,  concocted,  and  by  daylight  the 
next  morning  announced  to  my  poor  wife,  who 
had  been  so  devoted,  and  so  harassed  by  my  suf- 
ferings, that  at  11  o'clock  we  would  take  the  ears 
for  Boston.  I  found  that  she  was  about  to  pro- 
pose something  similar.  My  reasons  were,  that 
Adeline  would  soon  be  worn  down  by  my  com- 


MEMOIR. 


25 


plaints,  and  without  the  ability  of  doing  much 
for  me ;  —  and  then  I  could  be  of  no  further  use 
in  the  medical  profession,  and  might  as  well  be 
away,  if  I  could  hope  to  gain  any  thing  by  it;  — 
then  here  I  should  be  in  the  centre  of  all  the 
surgical  knowledge  in  the  country :  so  here  I  am. 
Thursday  I  went  to  the  Revere  ;  —  got  along  in 
the  cars  by  lying  on  the  ladies'  settees ;  —  sent 
for  Dr.  Mason  Warren,  stated  the  case,  and  let 
him  have  a  primary  examination;  —  he  recom- 
mended my  coming  to  the  hospital,  where  I  should 
have  every  attention.  Yesterday  I  came  here ; 
the  irritation  from  the  examination  produced  a 
good  deal  of  soreness.  Last  night  I  passed 
a  pretty  comfortable  night ;  but  this  morning  am 
in  considerable  pain.  It  is  determined  not  to 
operate  till  I  am  more  quiet ;  —  of  course  I  shall 
take  the  ether,  but  the  consequences  of  operat- 
ing cannot  but  be  severe; — not  till  the  first  of 
the  week  certainly,  as  there  is  nothing  to  hurry 
me  away.  It  is  not  hoped  to  have  the  operation 
radical ;  all  we  can  hope  for  is  to  be  made  more 
comfortable;  how  that  may  be,  no  mortal  can 
tell.  I  must  try,  therefore,  to  submit  myself  to 
the  will  of  Him  who  is  ever  kind  and  good.     I 


26  MEMOIR. 

do  pray  to  be  freed  from  pain ;  for  to  my  excita- 
ble constitution  that  is  all  but  insupportable. 
YourSj  truly,  Chas.  A.  Cheevee. 


To  Dr. 


Boston,  Hospital,  May  25, 
Tuesday  mom. 


Dear  Doctor,  —  Well,  here  I  am  on  my  back, 
and  now  making  my  second  attempt  to  write, 
which  shall' be  to  you,  —  with  whom,  through  so 
many  years,  I  have  passed  without  a  single 
irritated  feeling  or  heart-burning;  or,  if  one  ever 
occurred,  almost  as  soon  adjusted  as  made  (some- 
thing to  boast  of  between  two  rival  doctors). 
On  Saturday,  I  wrote  our  mutual  friend,  Mr. 

,  as  the  centre  and  head  of  us  all,  well 

knowing  that  aU  my  friends  were  his,  and  that 
he  would  communicate  with  you  all.  It  is  best 
on  the  whole  I  should  be  here,  as  you  know  we 
agreed  the  morning  I  left  Portsmouth;  not  but 
I  could  have  got  along  under  your  care,  and  that 
of  my  friends ;  but  as  it  was  plain  I  had  arrived 
at  a  crisis  of  my  disease  where  I  must  stop,  and 
at  once,  it  was  best  I  should  be  removed  from 
all  harassing  solicitations  to  make  visits,  or  even 


MEMOIR. 


27 


give  advice ;  for,  during  the  last  month  or  two, 
many  a  time  have  I  yielded  to  make  visits  when 
I  would  have  gladly  paid  double  my  fees  to 
have  been  let  alone.  Besides,  I  am  here  in  a 
delightful  place  of  quiet,  and  the  centre  of  the 
first  surgical  skill  of  New  England.  I  shall 
yield  myself  up  to  the  doctors  to  do  as  they  will, 
with  the  only  condition  that  I  must  be  spared 
from  pain  as  far  as  possible,  for  my  excita- 
ble constitution  will  not  brook  it :  severe  and 
long-continued  pain  would  drive  me  mad.  As 
much  as  I  have  enjoyed  this  beautiful  world,  I 
would  not,  could  not,  consent  to  purchase  years 
of  existence  at  the  expense  of  even  a  few  months' 
severe  suffering.  So,  you  see,  my  dread  is  not 
death, — that  or  any  other  danger  I  can,  no 
doubt,  look  full  in  the  face  as  well  as  any  other 
man.  I  can  easily  consent  to  be  an  invalid  the 
remainder  of  my  days,  if  they  can  be  but  passed 
in  comparative  comfort;  for  with  the  aid  of  books, 
the  best  of  friends,  the  means  of  living,  and  a 
kind  Providence,  I  could  be  very  happy,  though 
unable  to  move  about  much. 

On  Friday  I   came  here,  and  was  cursorily 
examined  by  Dr.  M.  Warren.     He  agreed  with 


28  MEMOIR. 

me  that  a  radical  removal  of  tlie  whole  could  not 
probably  be  made,  but  a  partial  one,  which  might 
communicate  relief,  and  put  me  in  a  way  of 
being  comfortable.  Yesterday  was  the  day  to 
have  had  a  more  thorough  one  with  the  specu- 
lum," and  to  decide  upon  the  nature,  extent,  &c. 
of  disease,  mode  of  operation,  &c.  If  it  can 
be  done  with  the  knife,  I  shall  much  prefer  it, 
as  less  painful  and  tedious.  But  he  was  called 
out  of  town,  so  I  suppose  we  shall  have  it  to-day. 
I  have  no  dread  of  the  operation  -per  se,  for  I 
shall  take  ether  enough  to  drown  all  suffering ; 
but  of  its  consequences  I  have  some  doubts  and 
misgivings.  However,  I  have  made  up  my  mind, 
that  I  have  nothing  further  to  do  with  it,  but  to 
submit  to  what  may  be  deemed  best,  and  resign 
myself  into  the  hands  of  that  good  Being  who 
will  do  more  for  me  than  I  can  even  ask  or 
think.         Believe  me  yours  sincerely, 

C.  A.  Cheever. 


To  Mr. 


Massachusetts  General  Hospital, 
*■  Wednesday,  June  2. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  As  you  must,  I  know,  feel 
anxious  to  hear  from  me,  I  write  a  short  account 


MEMOIR. 


29 


of  myself,  which  you  may  communicate  to  my 
friends. 

After  you  left  me,  and  the  eflfects  of  ether 
off,  of  course  I  suffered  considerably :  still  it  was 
attended  with  many  alleviating  moments.  From 
day  to  day  I  think  my  pain  has  been  less  and 
less.  What  with  the  kindest  of  friends,  and  a 
good  Providence  to  watch  and  guard  me,  I  am 
as  comfortably  cared  for  as  a  human  being  can 
reasonably  expect. 

The  doctor  has  made  another  examination  this 
morning.  With  the  aid  of  ether,  I  got  through 
very  well,  though  it  was  not  necessary  to  take 
away  my  consciousness.  He  says  matters  have 
improved  very  much.  I  think,  however,  they 
are  contemplating  another  operation.  I  told  him 
I  was  ready  to  submit  to  any  thing  but  down- 
right manslaughter.  What  may  be  the  event,  I 
leave  in  the  hands  of  that  Being  who  has  thus 
far  most  kindly  and  benevolently  protected  me. 
I  never  expect  to  be  firm  again.  If  I  can  be 
comfortable  and  free  from  suffering,  I  should 
like  to  live,  because  life  to  me  has  always,  when 
I  felt  well,  been  full  of  enjoyment. 

Dr.  K ,  in  a  letter  to  me,  in  consideration, 


30  MEMOIR. 

I  suppose,  of  my  past  sufferings,  says  he  never 
means  to  complain  any  more.  He  is  mistaken 
about  me.  I  have  suffered,  it  is  true,  in  silence ; 
but  my  sufferings  were  periodical,  and  when  the 
relief  came,  there  was  a  charm  and  zest  to  life 
almost  indescribable.  He  has  suffered  almost 
constantly  for  a  long  life,  and  ten  thousand  times 
as  much  as  I  have.  I  cannot  name  all  my 
friends ;  but  whoever  asks  for  me  I  consider  one, 
and  to  him  send  greeting. 

Very  truly  yours,  &;c. 

C.  A.  Cheevee. 


To  Mr.  and  "Mrs. 


Massachusetts  General  Hospital, 
June  20. 

My  dear  old  Friends,  —  I  do  not  mean  old  in 
the  Methuselah-sense  of  the  word,  but  in  the 
sense  in  which  time  has  so  much  endeared  you  to 
my  heart.  From  my  earliest  experience  of  pro- 
fessional life,  you  took  me  up,  and  have  adhered 
to  me  with  a  faithfulness  far  beyond  my  deserts. 
For  this,  and  your  ever-unvarying  kindness,  you 
have  my  most  profound  reverence  and  regard. 
On  my  side,  I  think  I  have  endeavored  to  do 


MEMOIR.  31 

my  duty  towards  you.  On  looking  back,  what 
scenes  crowd  upon  the  memory,  of  suffering  and 
death,  with  which  we  have  been  familiarly  con- 
nected ;  and  how  much  have  we  to  thank  God 
for  his  unnumbered  mercies,  though  "  clouds 
and  darkness  surround  his  throne " !  Faith,  my 
good  friends,  is  the  only  anchor  we  can  rest  upon 
in  trial  and  sickness,  and  the  only  true  one  which 
will  not  desert  us  in  prosperity.  Faith,  I  say, 
but  not  that  mere  intellectual  belief  which  thinks 
the  arguments  and  reasons  for  a  belief  in  the 
promises  of  Christianity  on  the  whole  the  most 
preponderating,  and  therefore  to  be  received  as 
truth;  but  that  heart-felt  faith,  and  which  is 
so  deep  and  strong,  as  in  some  to  amount  almost 
to  mathematical  demonstration.  People  with 
such  faith  we  all  of  us  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  and  enjoying.  Such,  amongst  the  dead, 
were  Dr.  Haven,  Dr.  Parker,  and,  only  be- 
cause more  recent,  the  more  impressive,  our  late 

lamented  friend,  J.  "W.  Foster.     Mr.  ,  and 

others  I  could  mention,  I  have  no  doubt,  enjoy 
an  equal  amount  of  faith ;  that  is,  there  is  never 
the  shade  of  a  shadow  of  doubt  resting  upon 
their  minds.    As  to  Mr.  Foster,  it  always  seemed 


32 


MEMOIR. 


to  me,  that  he  was  living  as  much  in  the  future 
as  the  present;  —  that  the  veil  which  conceals 
the  future  was  always  rolled  up,  and  that  the 
beyond  was  illuminated  to  his  mind  with  the 
beams  of  a  noon-day  sun.  What  a  death-scene  ! 
No  display !  but,  calm  as  a  "  summer's  eve,"  he 
resigned  cheerfully  his  spirit  to  the  God  who 
gave  it.  I  thought  then,  I  think  so  now,  but  for 
the  robbery,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have 
gone  down  to  the  grave  in  his  place.  He  seemed 
to  realize  and  enjoy  that  sentiment  of  Dr.  Ghan- 
ning,  "  It  is  a  privilege  to  die."  But  as  to  most 
of  us,  and  myself  in  particular,  this  high  faith 
has  never  taken  full  possession.  The  most  we, 
or  at  least  I,  can  get,  is  an  occasional  glimpse, 
which,  when  vouchsafed,  is  glorious  indeed;  but, 
"like  angels'  visits,  they  are  few  and  far  be- 
tween." 

Jane  22,  Tuesday. 

To  you,   Mr. ,  one   of  my  earliest  and 

dearest  friends,  what  word  of  comfort  can  I 
impart  to  cheer  your  despondency,  or  alleviate 
your  'pains  ?  Alas !  words  will  not  do  it.  The 
most  I  can  wish  for  you  is,  that  you  may  enjoy 
that  faith  which  will  bring  before  you  all  the 


MEMOIR.  33 

glories  of  the  fiiture  as  if  they  were  present 
realities ;  and  why  should  you  not  have  this 
blessed  foretaste  of  the  joys  of  the  other  world  ? 
Your  life,  it  appears  to  me  (I  would  not  flatter), 
has  been  that  of  a  sincere,  humble  Christian, 
"  doing  justly,  loving  mercy,  and  walking  humbly 
before  God."  What  more  can  we  do  ?  All  can 
look  back  upon  many  shortcomings,  and  even 
sins  of  commission.  But  God  will  forgive  us,  if 
the  general  tenor  of  our  lives  has  corresponded 
with  his  precepts.  Cheer  up,  then.  I  have  pre- 
dicted that  you  would  yet  be  raised  to  comfort  in 
this  world.    May  it  become  true ! 

To  IVIrs. ,  the  good  mother,  the  untiring, 

faithful  wife,  —  how  much  you  must  enjoy  from 
a  consciousness  of  the  sacred  performance  of 
duty !  and  what  a  glorious  crown  of  rejoicing  is 
resei^ed  for  you  in  the  future !  Farewell ;  my 
love  to  all  the  family.  This  is  probably  the  last 
friendly  letter  I  shall  write  to  any  one,  as  my 
strength  will  not  support  it.  This  is  the  effort  of 
two  days.  But  I  felt  it  due  to  you  for  all  your 
kindness.  C.  A.  c. 

Mr. ,  who  paid  me  a  most  consolatory 

visit  Monday  evening,  —  last  evening,  —  will 
3 


34  MEMOIR. 

communicate  to  you  all  about  me.  There  is 
no  probability  of  my  going  through  a  third  ope- 
ration at  present,  if  ever.  I  am  too  much  ex- 
hausted. I  try  to  keep  up  my  spirits ;  they  do 
not  often   desert  me;    but  I  was  pretty  well 

down  when  Mr.  called   and  cheered  me 

up.     Love  to  all.         Yours,  truly, 

Chas.  a.  Cheeveb. 


To  Mr. 


Mass.  General  Hospital,  June  30. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  I  send  you  a  sort  of  bulletin 
of  my  health.  I  wish  I  could  say,  that  I  was  as 
well  as  last  week ;  then  I  expected  to  have  been 
at  Saugus  to  recruit  in  ten  days.  But,  on 
Saturday  morning,  an  exploration  was  proposed 
with  the  aid  of  ether;  and  that  was  all  I  sup- 
posed it  was,  until  I  found  the  effects  were  worse 
than  any  before,  and  I  suffered  very  much  Satur- 
day, Sunday,  and  Monday:  since  which  it  has 
gradually  been  diminishing,  though  still  severe. 
Then -it  was  the  doctor  told  me  he  had  broke 
it  up  still  more ;  the  previous  soreness,  &c.,  ac- 
counting for  the  aggravated  suffering.     In  addi- 


MEMOIR. 


35 


tion  to  my  other  troubles,  I  am  threatened  with 
an  abscess  on  the  tuberosity  of  the  ischium  (the 
bone  on  which  we  sit) ;  so  you  see  I  am  environed 
about.  The  doctor  says  that  it  is  nothing  but  a 
sympathy  of  the  great  nerves  with  the  parts  ope- 
rated on ;  that,  if  it  goes  on,  it  will  be  a  common 
abscess,  and  nothing  more.  I  don't  know:  he 
feels,  however,  pretty  certain.  I  endeavor  to 
leave  it  to  him,  and  put  my  trust  in  Providence. 
One  thing  is  certain,  my  removal  from  the  hos- 
pital is  quite  remote.  Well,  if  I  must  go  on,  and 
continue  to  be  sick,  I  could  not  be  better  situated. 
The  hospital  is  as  cool  and  comfortable  as  we  could 
wish.  Yesterday,  when  the  heat  in  the  city  was 
90  degrees,  and  people  were  melted  down,  I  was 
lying  most  of  the  day  under  a  blanket;  and 
Adeline  says  she  did  not  feel  the  heat.  Besides, 
I  have  all  my  family  about  me.  I  can  truly  bear 
testimony  to  your  remark,  "  that  sickness  is  not 
unmitigated  suffering."  There  are  a  great  many 
ameliorating  circumstances ;  and  it  is  surprising 
what  little  things  will  give  a  change  and  a  tone 
to  the  feelings  of  the  sufferer,  even  though  they 
last  but  a  short  time.  But  then  multiply  them 
as  they  occur  through  twenty-four  hours,  it  is 


36 


MEMOIR. 


surprising  how  great  the  product  proves  to  be. 
I  could  illustrate  this,  but  enough  for  the  present. 
I  know  I  have  suflfered  greatly,  particularly  for 
one  so  sensitive :  still,  thank  God,  I  have  found 
a  good  many  alleviations. 

I  don't  think  I  have  been  so  low-spirited  as  I 
was,  since  you  left  me :  your  visit  cheered  me 
up  very  much.  And  now,  my  good  friend,  what- 
ever may  be  my  fate,  accept  from  me  my  most 
sincere  thanks  for  your  untiring  kindness  and 
sympathy  for  me  and  mine  through  a  long  course 
of  years ;  and,  giving  my  love  to  your  wife  and 
children,  believe  me,       Yours  truly, 

C.  A.  Cheevek. 


To  Mr. 

July  20. 

And  now,  my  dear  Friend,  what  shall  I  say 
to  you  for  all  your  feeling  and  kindness  shown  to 
me  1  Your  visits  to  me  have  been  very  consola- 
tory, inspiring  me  with  hope  and  confidence,  par- 
ticularly as  regards  the  future ;  for  so  imperfect 
have  I  been,  that  I  hardly  dared  to  look  beyond 
the  present.    One  expression  of  yours  took  deep 


MEMOIR.  37 

root  in  my  mind,  viz.  that  you  had  no  doubt  that 
God  would  do  the  very  best  with  every  one  of 
his  children  that  could  be  done ;  that  is,  that  his 
capacity  would  admit  of:  so  that  there  is  hope 
for  all  whose  intentions  in  life  on  the  whole  are 
good,  even  though  their  faith  be  only  as  a  grain 
of  mustard-seed.    Indeed,  we  are  so  differently 
constituted,  mentally,  that  faith  is  much  more 
lively  in  some.     I  have  known  many,  sincerely 
good  people  as  I  believe,  and  struggling  to  do  and 
be  good;  yet  all  their  lives  under  a  cloud.     Is 
it  not  so  ?     The  mind  cannot  be  forced,  and  some 
are  more  easily  convinced  than  others.    I  never 
heard  a  sermon  of  yours  but  I  gave  to  it  my  full 
intellectual  assent;  and  yet,  as  I  have  said  to 
you,  the  veil  between  this  and  the  future  has 
never  been  lifted,  as  it  has  to  you ;  and  many  I 
have  known  who  seemed  to  possess  a  sort  of 
mathematical  demonstration  in  regard  to  it.     I 
hope  and  pray  I  may  have  clearer  views.    I  be- 
lieve perhaps  as  much  as  my  nature  and  occupa- 
tion admit  of.    I  rely  on  the  love  of  God,  who 
has  done  so  much  for  me. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  A.  C. 


38  MEMOIR. 

These  letters  exhibit  something  of  Dr. 
Cheever's  mental  condition  during  his  resi- 
dence at  the  hospital ;  but  we  cannot  find 
words  adequate  to  our  remembrance  of 
his  serenity,  gentleness,  and  lowliness  of 
spirit,  while  under  this  severe  trial.  He  was 
almost  never  depressed,  though  he  enter- 
tained no  sanguine  expectations  of  recovery. 
For  many  days  he  was  conscious  of  being 
in  imminent  danger,  but  was  himself 
surprised  to  find  how  calmly  he  could 
look  death  in  the  face.  He  constantly  ex- 
pressed his  grateful  sense  of  the  assiduity 
of  his  medical  attendants,  the  kindness  of 
his  numerous  friends,  and  the  unwearied 
devotion  of  those  nearest  to  his  affections. 
He  enjoyed  much  from  the  delightful  as- 
pects of  nature,  as  seen  from  the  windows 
of  his  apartment,  and  from  the  flowers  with 
which  loving  hands  kept  his  room  profuse- 
ly supplied.  And  not  alone  for  their  own 
intrinsic  value  did  he  prize  these  sources  of 


MEMOIR.  39 

relief  and  solace  in  human  sympathy,  and 
in  the  unuttered  sympathy  of  nature.  They 
were  to  his  soul  types  and  pledges  of  the 
divine  benignity,  and  gave  perpetual  nutri- 
ment to  his  religious  trust  and  hope.  On 
the  grounds  of  that  hope  he  often  conversed 
with  the  profoundest  humility,  yet  with  a 
willing  self-surrender  to  the  divine  mercy. 
He  expressed  the  humblest  self-estimate, 
spoke  lightly  of  the  virtues  that  had  en- 
deared him  to  so  many  hearts,  gave  utter- 
ance to  a  deep  sense  of  his  imperfections 
and  frailties,  and  placed  his  reliance  wholly 
on  the  redeeming  mercy  of  God  in  Christ. 
At  the  same  time,  his  tender  thoughtful- 
ness  for  others  attached  a  peculiar  beauty, 
nay,  even  a  lofty  moral  grandeur,  to  these 
months  of  suffering.  When  he  could  not 
lift  his  head  from  the  pillow,  and  could 
hold  his  pen  but  for  a  few  moments  at  a 
time,  he  wrote  almost  daily  some  letter  of 
sympathy  to  patients  whom  he  had  left  in 


40  MEMOIR. 

a  feeble  or  dying  condition,  to  aged  friends 
who  had  leaned  on  his  kindness,  to  chronic 
invalids  to  whom  he  might  impart  comfort 
from  his  own  experience,  and  to  those  of 
the  depressed,  afflicted,  needy,  and  deso- 
late among  his  acquaintance,  who  might 
be  soothed  and  cheered  by  such  tokens  of 
remembrance.  At  the  same  time,  he  kept 
up  his  cognizance  of  such  prolonged  cases 
of  illness  as  had  been  under  his  care,  and 
forgot  his  own  pain  and  peril  in  devising 
means  and  resources  for  their  relief  or  res- 
toration. Never  was  he  more  assiduous 
in  labors  of  love  than  under  a  burden  of 
debUity  and  bodily  anguish  which  might 
almost  have  justified  selfishness. 

After  a  few  weeks,  he  was  convalescent ; 
and,  though  he  looked  forward  to  but  a 
partial  recovery,  and  had  no  expectation  of 
being- restored  to  active  duty,  he  yielded 
himself  with  grateful  resignation  to  the 
trials,  restrictions,   and  infirmities   of   an 


MEMOIR.  41 

invalid's  life  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
About  the  middle  of  August,  he  left  the 
hospital,  to  spend  several  weeks  at  the 
family  mansion  in  Saugus.  These  weeks 
he  deemed  the  happiest  of  his  life.  He 
renewed  such  of  his  old  acquaintance  as 
death  had  spared,  sat  in  the  farm-houses 
where  he  had  played  in  his  boyhood,  per- 
formed easy  labors  on  the  grounds  planted 
and  adorned  by  his  father  and  his  ances- 
tors, visited  and  relieved  the  sick  in  the 
neighborhood  of  his  sojourn,  and  enjoyed 
the  quiet  of  home-life  with  his  sister  and 
his  immediate  family.  Never  had  he  been 
more  gentle,  loving,  or  confiding.  Never 
had  he  ministered  more  richly  to  the  happi- 
ness of  those  whose  happiness  had  been 
the  study  of  his  life.  Never  had  the  child- 
like and  the  manly  attributes  of  character 
been  more  beautifully  blended  in  his 
demeanor  and  character.  Under  the  sha- 
dow of  death,  the  fruits  of  piety  and  love 


42  MEMOIR. 

were  ripening  for  the  harvest.  On  the 
17th  of  September,  he  was  seized  with  an 
illness  which  presented  at  first  no  alarming 
symptoms,  but  which,  on  accomit  of  the 
condition  of  his  system,  admitted  not  of 
the  usual  modes  of  relief.  He  gradually 
lapsed  into  a  lethargic  state,  and,  with  no 
consciousness  of  the  approach  of  death, 
sank  in  painless  dissolution  on  the  morn- 
ing of  September  22.  He  died  where, 
could  he  have  chosen  the  spot,  he  would 
have  asked  that  he  might  close  his  days. 
He  was  spared  the  agony  of  parting,  and 
the  dreaded  experience  of  the  death-strug- 
gle. He  was  permitted  to  pass  away, 
before  life  had  become  a  weariness.  And 
those  who  loved  him  best,  while  they  can 
never  cease  to  regret  that  they  can  see  his 
face  no  more,  can  yet  own,  in  the  oppor- 
tuneness of  his  death,  the  kind  appoint- 
ment of  Him  who  in  equal  mercy  gives  and 
takes  away.     On  September  24,  his  obse- 


MEMOIR.  43 

quies  were  attended  by  his  family,  his 
pastor,  and  a  few  of  his  nearest  friends; 
and  his  body  was  laid  in  the  family-tomb, 
in  the  old  ancestral  orchard,  with  many 
tears,  and  in  profound  sorrow,  yet  with 
only  grateful  and  blessed  remembrances, 
and  in  a  hope  full  of  immortality. 

For  his  profession,  Dr.  Cheever  pos- 
sessed a  singular  aptitude.  His  powers  of 
observation  were  peculiarly  keen ;  and  his 
prognosis  of  disease  was  characterized 
alike  by  its  intuitive  quickness,  and  its 
almost  unfailing  accuracy.  In  his  practice, 
he  united  prudence  and  promptness,  gentle- 
ness and  energy.  No  emergency,  however 
sudden,  found  him  unprepared.  When 
there  was  time  for  deliberation,  he  generally 
pursued  a  mild  and  expectant  treatment ; 
but,  when  life  and  death  were  poised  on 
the  decision  of  the  moment,  he  could  have 
instant  recourse  to  the  desperate  remedy  or 
the  capital  operation.     Always  calm  and 


44 


MEMOIR. 


self-collected  in  times  of  danger,  he  sus- 
tained the  confidence  and  hopefulness  of 
his  patients,  when  the  least  shadow  of  mis- 
giving or  despondency  might  have  been 
fatal.  His  accurate  eye  and  steady  hand 
concurred^,  with  his  moral  intrepidity  in 
giving  him  eminent  skill  and  success  as  a 
surgeon ;  and  he  was  wont  to  express  his 
peculiar  satisfaction  in  surgical  practice, 
on  account  of  its  definiteness  and  certainty 
of  aim,  and  the  promptness  of  the  relief 
which  it  affords.  His  professional  offices 
were  rendered  doubly  precious  by  his  per- 
fect reliableness  as  a  true-hearted,  frank, 
honorable  man.  He  abhorred  nothing  so 
much  as  subterfuge,  trickery,  and  conceal- 
ment. He  never  prescribed  for  the  sake  of 
doing  something,  or  expressed  groundless 
hopes,  or  cherished  baseless  expectations. 
He  dealt  plainly  with  his  patient  when  he 
could  bear  plain-dealing ;  and,  when  a  full 
disclosure  of  his  case  might  have  been  pre- 


MEMOIR.  45 

judicial  to  him  personally,  he  never  failed  to 
apprise  those  around  him  how  much  they 
might  have  to  fear,  or  how  little  to  hope. 
His  sympathies  were  deep  and  strong,  and 
seemed  to  grow  more  tender  with  the  very 
experiences  which  might  have  hardened  a 
spirit  of  coarser  make  and  less  delicate 
sensibilities.  There  was,  indeed,  no  osten- 
tatious expression  of  sympathy ;  but  it  was 
manifested  in  every  gentle  office  and  kind 
attention  which  blended  wisdom  and  love 
could  suggest;  and  there  are  many  who 
have  been  drawn  more  closely  to  him  by 
his  intense  fellow-feeling  with  them  un- 
der bereavement,  than  when  full  success 
crowned  his  skill  and  care. 

In  social  life,  he  was  acknowledged  by 
all  as  a  true-hearted  neighbor,  friend,  and 
citizen.  No  trail  of  meanness,  no  shade  of 
dishonor,  no  imputation  of  sordid  selfish- 
ness, could  be  attached  to  his  name  while 
he  lived,  or  can  cleave  to  his  memory  in 


46 


MEMOIR. 


death.  Warm,  ardent,  and  impulsive,  if 
he  was  ever  rash,  it  was  in  the  utterance  of 
the  truth;  if  over-earnest,  it  was  in  ad- 
vocacy of  the  right;  if  indignant,  it  was 
against  pretension,  fraud,  or  hypocrisy.  He 
was  the  friend  of  the  poor ;  and,  for  those 
especially  who  had  seen  better  days,  it  was 
his  constant  endeavor  to  ward  off  the  con- 
sciousness of  want,  and  the  irksomeness 
of  a  dependent  condition.  He  knew  how 
to  give,  without  wounding  the  self-respect 
of  his  beneficiary.  He  made  no  show  of 
beneficence ;  but  there  are  not  a  few  who 
testify  that  at  critical  periods  his  kindness 
alone  stood  between  them  and  utter  desti- 
tution. A  large  portion  of  his  professional 
services  were  gratuitous;  and  that  not 
alone  or  chiefly  among  those  who  could 
not  have  paid  him,  but  wherever  the  charge 
might  have  caused  straitness  or  distress. 
His  books,  after  his  death,  exhibited  his 
characteristic  benevolence;    containing,  in 


MEMOIR.  47 

numerous  instances,  a  slight  or  merely  no- 
minal charge  for  services  rendered  through 
a  series  of  years.  It  may  be  said  of  him, 
with  literal  truth,  that  he  never  received 
fees  that  were  not  easily  and  willingly 
paid.  In  all  his  relations  to  the  commu- 
nity at  large,  he  was  public-spirited  and 
enterprising ;  the  active  advocate  of  educa- 
tion, order,  social  reform,  and  progress. 

His  character  rested  on  a  firm  basis  of 
Christian  faith  and  principle.  His  conver- 
sance with  suffering  and  death,  so  far  from 
generating  the  hardness  of  feeling,  coldness 
of  heart,  and  sceptical  tendencies,  which 
have  been  so  falsely  and  cruelly  laid  to  the 
charge  of  the  medical  faculty  (for  no  pro- 
fession can  exhibit  a  larger  proportional 
number  of  consistent  and  devoted  Chris- 
tian believers),  only  made  him  more  vividly 
sensible  of  the  need  of  an  omnipotent  sup- 
port for  the  soul  under  physical  anguish 
and  in  the  near  prospect  of  death.     With 


48  MEMOIR. 

reverent  curiosity  and  earnest  longing,  he 
watched  and  treasured  up  the  spiritual 
experiences  connected  with  illness  and  dis- 
solution ;  and  was  wont,  for  his  own  edifi- 
cation, still  to  frequent  the  death-chamber 
of  the  resigned  and  devout,  when  human 
help  had  ceased  to  be  of  avail,  deeming  it 
a  precious  privilege  to  look  at  both  worlds 
through  the  clarified  vision  of  those  who 
stand  on  the  confines  of  both.  The  insti- 
tutions of  religion  had  not  only  his  nega- 
tive sanction,  but  the  full  support  of  his 
example  and  influence.  No  stress  of  pro- 
fessional engagements,  no  weariness  or 
exhaustion,  kept  his  seat  at  church  vacant, 
unless  there  was  some  absolute  necessity 
for  his  aid  at  the  very  hour  of  service.  He 
was  for  many  years  a  communicant,  and 
attested  the  sincerity  of  his  self-consecra- 
tion- at  the  altar  of  Christian  piety  by 
uniform  religious  reverence,  and  by  a  guile- 
less and  faithful  life. 


MEMOIR.  49 

Brief  and  imperfect,  indeed,  has  our 
sketch  of  our  friend  been.  It  has  been  less 
Our  design  to  make  him  known  where  he 
was  unknown  while  living,  than  to  refresh 
the  memory  of  the  many  friends,  who 
would  gladly  preserve,  with  the  lineaments 
of  his  countenance,  some  feeble  attempt  at 
his  moral  portraiture.  Had  the  writer 
loved  him  less,  he  might  have  been  able  to 
enter  into  a  more  rigid  analysis  of  his  cha- 
racter. But,  where  our  affections  are 
warmly  interested,  the  critical  judgment  as 
to  details  is  suspended,  and  we  can  only 
give  shape  to  the  impression  made  upon 
us  by  the  aggregate  of  our  friend's  mental 
and  moral  qualities.  By  such  a  standard,  it 
is  hardly  possible  to  over-estimate  the  sub- 
ject of  this  memoir ;  for  no  man  can  have 
held  a  dearer  place  than  he  in  the  respect, 
affection,  and  gratitude  of  those  who 
enjoyed  his  friendship,  were  relieved  by  his 
skill,  or  comforted  by  his  charity.  For 
4 


50  MEMOIR. 

them  we  have  written ;  for  those  who  loved 
him  in  life,  whose  tenderest  sympathy  was 
with  him  in  his  trials  and  sufferings,  and 
who  can  never  let  his  memory  die. 


ADDRESSES  AND  ESSAYS. 


ADDRESSES,   &c. 


AN  ADDRESS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON, 
DELIVERED  AT  THE  FORENSIC  HALL  IN  PORTS- 
MOUTH, IN  1828. 

Death,  at  all  times  a  solemn  and  an 
afflictive  event,  is  peculiarly  solemn  and 
afflictive,  when  a  young  man  falls  its  vic- 
tim. We  can  look  with  emotions  compa- 
ratively calm  and  subdued  upon  one  worn 
down  by  the  cares  and  infirmities  of  age, 
as  he  slowly  descends  to  the  tomb.  As 
the  evening  of  his  days  has  approached, 
by  its  lengthening  shadows  we  have  been 
admonished,  that  the  night  of  death  was  at 
hand.     For  an  event  like  this,  we  are  always 


54  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

prepared.  It  is  in  accordance  with  the  great 
law  of  change  and  dissolution,  stamped 
upon  every  thing  about  us.  We  see  empires 
decaying,  the  proudest  monuments  of  art, 
the  works  of  nature,  the  great  globe  itself, 
waxing  old,  and  mouldering  away ;  and 
man  himself,  the  noblest  work  of  all,  after 
a  few  short  years  at  most,  must  join  the 
general  wreck.  When  death  comes,  there- 
fore, in  obedience  to  this  universal  decree, 
we  bow  to  it  as  to  an  inexorable  law  of 
our  nature,  the  completion  of  an  inevitable 
destiny.  Nay,  more;  sad  and  dreadful  as 
is  the  alternative,  we  would  not  reverse  it. 
We  would  not,  under  the  circumstances  of 
our  being,  plead  for  our  friends  an  exemp- 
tion from  its  resistless  sway.  We  would 
rather  be  grateful,  that,  to  the  broken-heart- 
ed, there  is  an  asylum  from  the  storms  of 
the  world ;  that  there  is  a  retreat  from  the 
bleak  winter  of  age ;  that  there  is  one  spot 
where  its  cares  and  sorrows  can  never  enter, 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       55 

though  it  be  no  other  than  the  dark  and 
silent  mansion  of  the  tomb. 

But  when  one  is  cut  down  in  the  morn- 
ing of  his  days,  in  the  season  of  bloom 
and  of  promise,  who  shall  tell  how  over- 
whelming the  calamity,  how  deep  the 
despair  of  blighted  hopes,  and  warm  affec- 
tions blasted  ?  Oh  !  then,  if  ever,  the  cup 
of  affliction  is  filled  to  the  brim.  From 
being  the  merciful  friend  we  have  contem- 
plated it,  to  worn-out,  exhausted  nature, 
we  can  view  death  now  only  as  shrouded 
in  gloom  and  dismay,  the  scourge  of  our 
race,  the  relentless  destroyer  of  all  our 
hopes.  With  an  iron  grasp,  it  fastens 
upon  the  strength  of  manhood,  the  prop  of 
age,  the  joy  of  friendship,  the  pride  of  so- 
ciety ;  and  he  withers  away.  At  a  moment, 
it  may  be,  when  his  hopes  are  brightest,  and 
his  prospects  most  flattering,  —  when  he  is 
just  entering  upon  the  busy  scenes  of  the 
world,  to  mingle  in  its  cares  and  its  joys. 


56 


ADDRESS    ON    THE 


with  the  promise  of  being  useful  and  honor- 
able and  happy,  a  comfort  and  an  honor 
to  his  friends,  and  a  blessing  to  the  commu- 
nity, —  his  countenance  is  changed,  and  he 
is  summoned  away.  It  is  here  that  the 
power  of  death  is  terrible  indeed.  We  are 
overwhelmed  with  the  havoc  and  desolation 
it  produces.  What  eye  melts  not  in  tears, 
as  it  gazes  on  the  form  over  which  disease 
and  death  have  swept  with  resistless  fury  ? 
It  is  all  in  ruins.  To  see  the  countenance, 
so  recently  lighted  up  with  the  smiles  of 
joy  and  of  gladness,  all  glowing  with  health 
and  intelligence,  its  features  now  blighted 
and  motionless,  and  cold  with  the  damps 
of  the  grave ;  the  eye,  once  all  on  fire,  its 
lustre  quenched,  to  beam  no  more;  the  lips, 
whence  flowed  the  accents  of  kindness  and 
love,  hushed  and  silenced  for  ever ;  and  that 
frame -of  manly  vigor  and  strength,  so  full 
of  activity  and  life,  in  its  mechanism  so 
strange,  so  wonderful,  crushed  at  a  blow,  — 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.      57 

all  in  ruins,  but  the  mind,  the  soul ;  and 
even  that  has  vanished  from  our  view, 
never  more  to  cheer  and  gladden  us  with 
its  presence ;  never  more  to  meet  us  again, 
till  that  awful  day,  when  we  shall  stand 
together,  as  stand  we  must,  before  the  bar 
of  God ;  —  in  view  of  a  scene  like  this,  oh  ! 
what  are  we,  and  what  is  human  life  ? 

"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss — it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 

In  a  season  of  deep  affliction  like  this 
we  cannot  drown  our  sorrows  in  oblivion, 
or  fly  from  an  aching  heart.  What  shall 
mitigate  its  anguish  ?  In  vain,  now,  do 
we  talk  of  resistless  fate  and  of  inevitable 
destiny ;  and  say  of  how  little  importance 
it  is  when  or  how  many  of  the  tender 
ties  of  affection  are  broken ;  since,  sooner 
or  later,  we  must  fall  and  mingle  together 
in   the    common    dust.      Arguments   and 


ADDRESS    ON    THE 


maxims  like  these  may  amuse  our  minds 
when  all  is  still  and  peaceful  about  us. 
They  may  sound  manful  in  our  ears,  when 
we  are  gliding  down  the  current  of  life, 
without  a  single  gathering  cloud  to  darken 
the  prospect,  or  a  threatening  storm  to  ruf- 
fle its  surface.  We  may  imagine  that  we 
shall  be  able  to  brace  ourselves  up,  and 
endure  with  stoicism  and  bravery  the  heavi- 
est calamities  and  afflictions,  if  they  come 
upon  us  with  the  sanction  of  an  unaltera- 
ble doom.  But  let  this  calm  be  troubled ; 
let  the  tempest  break ;  let  a  wasting  pesti- 
lence blast,  one  after  another,  by  our  sides, 
the  fondest  objects  of  our  hearts,  or  a  distant 
and  an  unseen  grave  open  to  receive  one  of 
them,  —  where  then  are  our  boasted  sup- 
porters and  comforters?  Reason  and  phi- 
losophy, alas !  however  much  they  might 
have 'promised  in  the  distance,  when  no 
danger  was  at  hand,  and  all  was  sunshine, 
are   cold   and  comfortless,  when  we    are 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       S9 

dealing  with  the  realities  of  life,  in  the 
dark  hour  of  anguish  and  sorrow.  They 
may  amuse  the  intellect;  but  the  iron  is 
in  the  heart,  and  they  cannot  reach  the 
source  of  wounded  affections. 

Our  friends  cannot  help  us.  They  may 
hover  around  us,  and  like  guardian  angels 
minister  to  the  mind  diseased;  but  they 
cannot  root  out  the  bitterness  of  grief. 
Their  generous  endeavors  to  pour  in  the 
balm  of  consolation,  and  alleviate  sorrow, 
command  our  gratitude,  and  may  possibly 
mitigate  the  intensity  of  suffering ;  but,  af- 
ter all,  it  is  by  the  sympathy  and  solicitude 
of  others  that  we  are  the  more  forcibly 
reminded  of  the  deprivation  of  kind  hands 
and  warm  hearts  that  have  left  us  for  ever. 
The  world,  with  its  pleasures  and  allure- 
ments, cannot  help  us.  The  joyful  scenes 
of  life  were  only  so  from  participation ;  and 
now  that  the  friends  who  gave  a  zest  to  life, 
and  rendered  every  scene  of  enchantment 


60 


ADDRESS    ON    THE 


more  dear  by  a  communion  of  interest 
and  of  feeling,  have  gone,  they  have  lost 
their  charms,  and  we  pass  heavily  along  — 
though  every  thing  around  us  may  be  smil- 
ing —  through  a  bleak  and  wintry  waste ; 
every  day,  every  hour,  every  spot,  bringing 
powerfully  to  the  mind  some  mournful 
associations  connected  with  the  departed. 

These  are  the  sorrows  which  bow  down 
the  heart  beyond  the  power  of  human  con- 
solation ;  and,  for  a  time  at  least,  if  we  have 
any  sensibility,  and  look  not  beyond  the 
world  for  support,  we  must  be  wretched 
indeed.  If  with  our  friends  we  believe  we 
are  committing  to  the  dust  the  minds,  the 
virtues  and  affections,  which  endeared  them 
so  much  to  us  when  living,  then  well  may 
we  sit  down  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  and 
give  ourselves  up  to  hopeless  despair ;  well 
may  we  suppress  every  motive  to  more  ge- 
nerous and  nobler  purposes  of  living,  with 
the  hope  of  meeting  them  again ;  for  we 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.      61 

shall  soon  lie  down  with  them  in  forgetful- 
ness  and  oblivion. 

But,  thanks  be  to  God,  we  are  not  thus 
deserted  in  our  moments  of  weakness  and 
sorrow.  A  light  breaks  in  upon  us  in  our 
darkest  hours,  and  reveals  a  "bright  path 
leading  through  the  gloom  of  the  grave, 
even  to  the  throne  of  the  Almighty."  They 
but  tread  the  path  that  the  blessed  hath 
trod ;  "  a  path  of  suffering  and  of  glory, 
bedewed  with  the  tears  of  earth,  but  bright- 
ened with  the  gleams  of  heaven."  With 
the  eye  of  faith,  we  can  see  our  virtuous 
friends,  as  they  leave  us,  bursting  the  fetters 
of  death,  and  winging  their  way  beyond 
the  stars,  to  a  brighter,  happier  world ;  to  a 
nobler  sphere  of  existence,  better  adapted, 
than  the  clouded,  checkered  scenes  of  earth, 
for  the  development  of  the  faculties  and 
affections  of  the  mind,  in  an  always  pro- 
gressive improvement,  and  a  happiness  for 
ever  enduring.    Impressed  with  feelings  like 


62  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

these,  though  the  bolt  may  have  struck  us 
to  the  heart,  and  every  joy  seem  to  be 
withering  and  dying  around  us,  hope  and 
mercy  will  lend  their  soft  and  benignant 
influences  to  mitigate  the  anguish  of  our 
sufferings.  Our  minds  dwell  no  longer 
upon  the  well-loved  form,  now  hushed  in 
death,  —  our  hearts  sink  not  with  it  into 
the  clay-cold  grave ;  for  the  spirit  has  un- 
folded its  wings,  and  flown  to  heaven, 
where  we,  after  the  discipline,  the  trials, 
and  sorrows  of  life  are  all  over,  if  faithful 
to  our  trust,  shall  meet  it  again,  and  meet 
to  part  no  more. 

My  friends,  an  event  like  the  one  we  have 
been  considering  has  brought  us  together 
this  evening.  We  have  come,  as  young 
men,  to  pay  a  simple  tribute  of  affection 
and  respect  to  the  memory  of  one,  wHo, 
wheli  but  commencing  like  ourselves  the 
journey  of  life,  has  been  suddenly  called  to 
his  final  account.     We  have  come,  too,  I 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON. 


63 


trust,  to  listen  to  the  admonitions  of  an 
event,  so  solemn  and  impressive,  —  to  learn 
from  it  our  duties,  and  gather  up  strength 
for  their  performance. 

Alfred  Mason,*  whose  early  loss  we 
mourn,  was  born  on  the  4th  of  March,  1804, 
and  under  circumstances  of  parentage,  sin- 
gularly fitted  to  elicit  and  bring  forward  his 
naturally  sagacious  and  inquisitive  mind. 
It  is  not,  however,  my  intention  to  dwell 
upon  the  early  scenes  of  his  childhood.  A 
thousand  little  incidents,  with  their  kindred 
emotions,  rather  to  be  felt  than  described, 
must  rush  upon  your  minds,  when  I  advert 
to  days  on  which  memory  fondly  lingers, 
before  the  charm  and  magic  of  existence 
were  broken  by  the  trials  and  vicissitudes 
of  maturer  years.  His  early  life  he  spent 
amongst    you;    and   how   cheerfully   and 

*  Died  on  the  12th  of  April,  1828,  aged  24  years, 
at  BeUevue  Hospital,  which  he  entered  February  24. 


64 


ADDRESS    ON   THE 


happily,  will  not  be  forgotten.  You  all 
remember  his  docility  and  gentleness,  the 
ingenuousness  and  sweetness  of  his  tem- 
per, the  amiable  simplicity  of  his  character, 
and  the  noble  generosity  of  his  soul. 

After  passing  the  usual  period  at  Phillips' 
Exeter  Academy,  where  he  gained  the  at- 
tachment and  esteem  of  all  who  knew  him, 
he  entered  Bowdoin  College.  Here  the 
same  qualities  of  the  mind  and  heart, 
which  endeared  him  to  his  earliest  friends, 
made  him  esteemed  and  beloved  in  every 
connection  he  formed.  If,  however,  he  was 
not  particularly  distinguished  in  the  routine 
of  college  exercises,  it  was  not  that  he  was 
deficient  in  industry,  or  insensible  to  the 
importance  of  mental  cultivation, — for  in  a 
very  large  class  he  exerted  a  commanding 
influence,  by  his  extensive  information  on 
subjects  of  general  and  polite  literature, 
and  by  his  unrivalled  eminence  in  a  parti- 
cular department  of  knowledge,  —  but  be- 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       65 

cause  he  viewed  the  prescribed  studies  of 
a  college  course  as  comparatively  of  infe- 
rior value  to  one  who  had  marked  out  for 
himself  a  path  in  life  in  which  they  would 
prove,  at  least,  of  doubtful  utility ;  and  he 
had  strength  and  elevation  of  character  to 
forego  the  trifling  distinctions  they  might 
confer,  in  his  love  for  pursuits  which  were 
more  congenial  to  his  taste,  and  for  which 
he  ever  evinced  a  most  remarkable  genius. 
It  is  the  remark  of  one  who  knew  him 
best,  a  classmate  and  an  intimate  friend, 
"that  he  discovered  in  early  life  a  decided 
partiality  for  natural  science;  and,  as  he 
increased  in  years,  it  ripened  into  the  most 
devoted  and  exclusive  attachment.  He 
flung  his  arms  around  her  inanimate  form, 
and,  like  Pygmalion's  statue,  nature  grew 
into  life  and  beauty  and  intelligence  be- 
neath his  warm  embrace ;  and  neither 
mathematics  nor  poetry,  politics  nor  plea- 
sure, could  shake  his  constancy,  or  estrange 
6 


66  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

his  love  from  those  charms  that  won  his 
youthful  heart." 

Thus  early  did  he  show  a  predilection 
for  studies  in  which  he  afterwards  became 
a  remarkable  proficient.  Nor  was  he  with- 
out sympathy  in  these  high  and  noble  pur- 
suits. It  was  his  good  fortune,  at  this 
period,  to  attract  the  notice  of  one  whom 
our  country  has  delighted  to  honor,  as 
having  attained  to  the  very  foremost  rank 
in  natural  science ;  and  for  whom,  in  a 
particular  branch,  we  should  perhaps  be 
unwilling  to  yield  the  palm  of  distinction 
to  any  in  the  world.  From  him  our  young 
friend  received  the  greatest  assistance.  He 
caught  his  spirit,  and,  by  his  aptitude  for 
learning,  his  industry,  and  enthusiastic 
exertion,  did  honor  to  the  distinguished 
attentions  that  had  been  so  liberally  and 
so  -generously  bestowed  upon  him.  He 
particularly  devoted  himself  to  the  sciences 
of ^  physiology,  natural  history,  chemistry, 


DEATH    OF    ALFRED    MASON.  67 

and  mineralogy ;  and  in  each,  particularly 
the  latter,  made  very  high  and  honorable 
attainments.  To  his  knowledge  of  this 
particular  branch,  our  Athenasum  is  in- 
debted for  many  of  its  valuable  specimens, 
and  for  its  classification  and  scientific 
arrangement. 

It  was  probably  the  connection  of  these 
branches  of  science,  which  he  so  much 
loved,  with  that  of  medicine,  to  which  they 
are  auxiliaries,  which  led  him  to  pursue  it 
as  a  profession.  Having  honorably  com- 
pleted his  education  at  Brunswick,  he 
entered  his  name,  as  a  student  of  medicine, 
with  a  distinguished  physician  of  this  place, 
whose  known  ardor  and  zeal  in  the  pursuit 
of  science  wgis  a  pledge  of  success  to  a 
favorite  pupil.  Being  naturally  endowed 
with  a  mind  active,  ardent,  and  discrimi- 
nating, he  possessed  every  requisite  for 
success  and  distinction  in  the  profession  he 
had  chosen,  not  only  from  the  acuteness 


Do  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

of  his  discernment,  his  decision,  and  judg- 
ment, but  from  an  exalted  seftse  of  inte- 
grity, and  a  truly  humane  and  philanthropic 
disposition.  To  the  cultivation  of  the 
several  branches  of  his  profession,  he  devot- 
ed himself  with  the  most  unwavering  zeal 
and  untiring  industry.  Indeed,  all  the 
energies  of  his  soul  seemed  to  be  conse- 
crated to  the  advancement  of  his  favorite 
object.  It  was  in  him  a  passion  to  which 
every  thing  of  minor  importance  was  com- 
pelled to  give  way.  He  did  not  thus  en- 
gage in  it,  however,  from  mere  pecuniary 
views  of  its  importance,  though  these  were 
probably  estimated,  as  they  should  be,  of 
real  though  subordinate  value ;  for  there 
was  nothing  selfish  or  mercenary  in  his 
nature.  No.  He  loved  his  profession  as  a 
science,  in  its  nature  ennobling  to  a  dili- 
gent'cultivator,  and  in  its  effects  a  blessing 
to  mankind.  He  labored  for  principles. 
He  believed,  with  the   great   Rush,  that 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.      69 

medicine  without  principles  is  an  humble 
art  and  a  degrading  occupation ;  but,  con- 
nected with  them,  the  sure  road  to  honor, 
and  to  the  moral  and  intellectual  elevation 
of  character.  With  such  just  and  ennobling 
views  of  the  art,  he,  at  different  periods, 
visited  the  first  medical  schools  of  our 
country,  always  acquiring  something  valu- 
able to  add  to  his  stock  of  acquirements, 
and  always  returning  with  an  ardor  un- 
abated for  still  further  improvement. 

It  might  be  supposed,  that,  in  a  mind 
thus  constituted,  and  devoted  as  it  was  to 
the  discipline  of  severe  study  and  abstruse 
investigation,  there  would  be  but  little  op- 
portunity for  the  exercise  of  the  finer  feel- 
ings of  our  nature.  But,  in  this  respect, 
he  possessed  a  delightful  harmony  of  cha- 
racter. He  did  not  cultivate  his  under- 
standing at  the  expense  of  his  heart :  they 
grew  up  and  flourished  together.  "With  a 
most  affectionate   disposition,  there  were 


70  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

united  in  him  a  delicate  and  tender  sen- 
sibility to  the  sufferings  of  others,  which 
manifested  itself  in  the  most  unwearied 
efforts  for  doing  them  good,  and  a  bene- 
volence which  was  limited  only  by  his 
powers  of  usefulness.  He  was  truly  the 
friend  of  the  sick  and  the  destitute,  extend- 
ing to  them,  as  opportunity  offered,  not 
only  the  high  offices  of  his  profession,  but, 
as  we  have  not  unfrequently  witnessed,  the 
bountiful  hand  of  kindness  and  charity. 
Accustomed,  from  his  situation  in  life,  to 
mingle  with  the  most  cultivated  society, 
he  carried  into  the  world  a  love  for  its 
refined  and  elevated  enjoyments.  Nature, 
indeed,  had  formed  him  for  the  pleasures 
of  friendship  and  of  social  intercourse ;  and 
how  much  he  enjoyed  them,  no  one  who 
remembers  his  affability  and  playfulness  of 
manner,  and  the  happiness  which  beamed 
from  every  expression  of  his  countenance, 
will  ever  forget.     Happy  himself,  he  made 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.      71 

every  one  about  him  happy,  by  the  cheer- 
fulness and  vivacity  of  his  disposition,  and 
by  a  singularly  frank,  accessible,  capti- 
vating, yet  unassuming  deportment.  He 
diffused  a  charm  over  the  various  relations 
and  endearments  of  domestic  life,  by  the 
ardor  and  strength  of  his  attachments,  by 
the  kindness  and  gentleness  of  his  spirit, 
and  by  his  indifference  to  self  in  his  deep 
solicitude  for  the  happiness  and  welfare  of 
the  circle  with  which  he  was  connected. 

The  same  zeal  which  characterized  him 
in  the  medical  profession  distinguished 
him  in  every  thing  he  undertook ;  ever 
active  and  ardent,  and  ever  extending  his 
influence  to  the  promotion  of  human  im- 
provement. In  this  respect,  he  will  be 
remembered  for  his  generous  labors  in  the 
instruction  of  a*  class  of  young  ladies  in 
the  elements  of  botany,  and  in  one  of  our 
Sunday-schools  as  a  faithful  and  intelli- 
gent teacher  of  the  principles  of  our  holy 


72  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

religion ;  and,  while  he  carried  into  life  a 
respect  and  reverence  for  its  sacred  insti- 
tutions, affections  so  ardent  and  elevated, 
we  trust,  must  have  imbibed  a  portion  of 
its  benevolent  spirit,  and  been  warmed  by 
its  heavenly  influences. 

That  a  mind  and  heart  thus  cultivated, 
as  they  had  already  made  him  respected 
and  beloved,  would  have  rendered  him  an 
ornament  to  the  medical  profession,  —  the 
messenger  of  mercy,  indeed,  to  the  distresses 
of  suffering  humanity,  —  cannot  be  doubted. 
"Why  they  were  not  permitted  to  ripen  into 
greater  usefulness,  and  extend  more  widely 
■their  benevolent  influences,  is  concealed 
from  us  by  Him  who  knoweth  what  is 
best  for  us ;  and  we  would  reverently  bow 
to  this  act  of  his  inscrutable  providence. 

Early  in  the  last  autumn,  he  left  this 
place  for  New  York,  where  he  took  up  his 
residence,  and  passed  the  winter,  under  the 
instruction  of  an  eminent  practitioner,  in 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON. 


73 


the  most  assiduous  attention  to  his  studies, 
and  in  unremitted  exertions  for  still  further 
attainments.  Believing  that  a  large  hos- 
pital would  afford  him  superior  facilities  for 
improvement,  and  for  witnessing  disease 
in  its  greatest  variety  and  most  malignant 
forms,  he  solicited  the  situation  of  assist- 
ant-surgeon at  Bellevue  Hospital ;  and  it 
is  honorable  to  him,  that,  so  highly  were 
bis  qualifications  appreciated,  from  very 
many  applicants,  he  was  selected  to  the 
office. 

During  the  winter,  an  epidemic  had  pre- 
vailed in  the  hospital,  which,  although  it 
had  apparently  subsided  at  the  time  of 
his  entrance,  shortly  afterward  made  its 
appearance  again,  spreading  through  the 
crowded  wards  with  greater  severity  and 
fatality  than  before  had  been  known.  To 
a  young  man  of  his  warm  and  generous 
character,  with  a  deep  sense  of  responsi- 
sibility,  and  a  heart  overflowing  with  sym- 


74  ADDRESS    ON   THE 

pathy,  it  may  be  easily  imagined  how 
trying  and  laborious  must  have  been  the 
situation  in  which  he  was  placed ;  and  how 
kind,  how  faithful,  and  how  vigilant  he 
was  in  the  practice  of  his  duties,  amid  the 
appalling  scenes  of  suffering  and  death,  we 
have  the  testimony  of  his  senior  in  office; 
and  many  a  grateful  heart  that  survived 
the  peril  will  ever  hold  his  name  in  ten- 
der remembrance.  Regardless  of  danger 
where  he  had  known  duties  to  perform, 
and  worn  down  by  care  and  anxiety  in 
unremitted  attempts  to  stay  the  desolation 
that  was  spreading  around  him,  he  fell  a 
victim  to  a  distemper,  which,  though 
treacherous  and  perhaps  flattering  in  its 
attack,  soon  developed,  in  the  destruction 
of  his  reason  and  strength,  its  inveterate 
and  fatal  malignancy. 

Thus  died  our  friend,  after  a  few  days' 
illness,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-four,  in 
the   midst   of   life,   when   the   world   was 


DEATH  OP  ALFRED  MASON. 


75 


bright,  when  he  had  gained  the  confidence 
of  success,  and  was  reaping  the  rewards  of 
an  honorable  ambition,  and  the  faithful 
cultivation  of  the  powers  and  faculties 
which  God  had  given  him. 

We  could  have  wished,  if  consistent 
with  His  will,  that  a  mind  so  ardent  and 
intelligent,  so  devoted  to  generous  exertion 
and  noble  enterprise,  might  have  been 
spared  to  his  friends  and  to  society;  yet 
not  our  will,  but  His  be  done.  We  would 
not  recall  him ;  we  would  not  have  had 
him  purchase  even  life  at  the  expense  of 
his  duty.  No.  He  had  sought  the  situa- 
tion which  proved  indeed  his  grave,  and 
we  would  not  have  had  him  shrink  from 
its  dangers.  To  those  who  loved  him  best, 
as  they  fondly  dwell  upon  the  virtues  of 
his  character,  how  happy  will  be  the  reflec- 
tion, that  his  last  days  were  passed  in 
endeavoring  to  soften  the  pillow  of  distress, 
in  administering  to  the  wants  of  the  sick 


76 


ADDRESS    ON    THE 


and  the  dying !  And  oh  how  consoling  the 
thought,  that  he  died  in  the  cause  of  suf- 
fering humanity ;  that  he  died  at  the  post 
of  his  duty!  It  may  be,  too,  that,  his 
work  accomplished,  his  duties  done,  in  the 
faithful  improvement  of  mind  and  develop- 
ment of  character,  he  is  wanted  in  a  loftier 
sphere  of  existence,  for  nobler  purposes, 
and  for  still  higher  advancement.  It  may 
be,  he  has  been  mercifully  removed  from 
impending  woe,  from  disappointments  and 
sorrows,  which  would  have  damped  his 
ardor,  and  ruined  his  peace.  It  is  certain 
that  the  event,  however  afflictive  it  may 
be,  is  the  allotment  of  infinite  Goodness 
and  of  unerring  Wisdom.     Then  — 


"  Weep  not  for  him !     He  died  in  early  youth, 
Ere  hope  had  lost  its  rich,  romantic  hues ; 
When  human  bosoms  seemed  the  homes  of  truth, 
And  earth  still  gleamed  with  beauty's  radiant  hues ; 
His  svimmer  prime  waned  not  to  days  that  freeze, 
His  wine  of  life  was  run  not  to  the  lees. 


I 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       77 

"  It  was  not  his  to  feel 
The  miseries  that  corrode  amassing  years  ; 
'Gainst  dreams  of  baffled  bliss  the  heart  to  steel  ; 
To  wander  sad  down  age's  vale  of  tears, 
As  whirl  the  withered  leaves  from  friendship's  tree, 
And  on  earth's  wintry  waste  alone  to  be. 

"  Weep  not  for  him !  by  fleet  or  slow  decay, 
It  never  grieved  his  bosom's  core  to  mark 
His  friends  loved  best  to  fade  away, 
His  prospects  wither,  or  his  hopes  grow  dark." 


We  shall  see  him  no  more.  His  body 
sleeps  in  the  dust,  and  his  spirit  has  re- 
turned to  the  God  who  gave  it,  who  will, 
with  unerring  wisdom,  estimate  the  im- 
provement of  the  faculties  and  affections 
which  his  inspiration  enkindled,  and  his 
energy  sustained.  In  him  society  has  lost 
a  valuable  member,  whose  bright  example, 
and  the  memory  of  whose  virtues,  cannot 
be  too  strongly  cherished;  science,  an  ac- 
tive and  zealous  votary  in  her  cause ;  and 
his  kindred  and  friends,  the  kind  and  affec- 
tionate spirit  that  ever  delighted  in  doing 


78  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

them  good.  Indeed,  the  anxiety  expressed 
at  the  intelligence  of  the  increasing  danger 
of  his  illness,  and  the  universal  sorrow 
manifested  at  his  death,  are  unequivocal 
testimonials,  how  highly  he  was  valued 
and  beloved,  and  how  deeply  his  loss  is 
lamented. 

In  view,  then,  of  an  event  so  solemn  and 
impressive,  how  empty  and  vain  must 
appear  every  pursuit  which  has  not  for  its 
object  the  elevation  of  the  intellectual  and 
moral  portions  of  our  nature !  It  is  charac- 
ter formed  upon  them  which  alone  can  be 
valuable  to  us ;  for  it  is  character,  which, 
as  it  is  improved  or  neglected,  will  light 
our  way  to  heaven,  or  sink  us  in  wretched- 
ness and  woe. 

A  voice  warns  us  from  the  grave  of 
the  young,  that  in  "the  midst  of  life  we 
are  in'death ; "  that,  although  in  the  vigor 
and  freshness  of  youth,  we  can  no  more 
escape  than  him  we  mourn,  "the   arrow 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.      79 

that  flieth  in  darkness,  or  the  destruction 
that  wasteth  at  noonday."  And  yet  how 
few  of  us  realize,  in  its  fullest  extent,  this 
solemn,  this  momentous  truth !  How  few 
of  us  believe  it  to  be  possible,  that  we  may 
be  now  standing  upon  the  verge  of  eterni- 
ty, and  that  our  next  step  may  be  into  the 
gravel  Still,  believe  it  or  not,  prepared 
for  it  or  not,  ere  another  year  shall  have 
closed,  for  some  of  us  the  mandate  will 
have  been  issued,  and  we  shaU  have  been 
gathered  with  the  mighty  congregation  of 
the  dead.  The  history  of  the  past  and 
of  the  present  is  the  history  of  death. 
Where,  let  me  ask,  are  the  friends  that 
participated  with  us  in  the  pleasures  of 
childhood  ?  If  we  have  reached  maturity, 
the  number  of  the  living  bears  no  compari- 
son to  that  of  the  dead.  If  we  have  arrived 
.at  old  age,  we  are  like  a  few  scattered  mo- 
numents in  a  barren  waste.  Every  thing 
about  us  is  in  ruins.     Indeed,  the  pathway 


80 


ADDRESS    ON    THE 


of  life  is  thickly  strewn  with  those  who 
entered,  as  gladly  as  ourselves,  upon  its 
busy  and  flattering  scenes.  At  every  step, 
some  faithful  companion  is  dropping  by 
the  way  ;  and,  one  by  one,  as  we  advance, 
we  are  parting  for  ever  with  the  dearest 
objects  of  our  hearts.  And  yet,  living,  as 
we  literally  do,  amongst  the  dying  and  the 
dead,  with  all  this  certainty  before  us,  how 
heedlessly  we  pass  along;  how  regardless 
of  preparation  for  an  event,  beyond  all 
others  the  most  solemn,  and  in  its  conse- 
quences the  most  awful ! 

The  truth  is,  however,  that  there  is  not 
one  of  us  but  hopes  and  intends,  at  some 
distant  period,  to  be  earnest  in  the  pre- 
paration for  death.  Our  excuse  is,  that  we 
are  young ;  that  the  allurements  and  seduc- 
tions of  life  are  strong ;  and  that  the  re- 
quired improvement  of  mind  and  cultiva- 
tion of  heart  are  too  great  a  tax  upon 
enjoyment,  and  detract  too  much  from  *our 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       81. 

pleasures;  that  this  gloomy  preparation 
for  death  is  the  business  of  age ;  that  we 
shall  have  less  to  contend  with,  and  can 
engage  in  it  with  more  certainty  of  success, 
when  passion  is  hushed,  and  appetite 
exhausted,  and  infirmity  and  disease  are 
drawing  us  off  from  the  heat  and  bustle  of 
life,  and  uniting  their  influence  to  break  up 
the  ties  which  have  bound  us  so  strongly 
to  the  world.  How  foolish  and  absurd  an 
argument  like  this,  when  we  consider,  that, 
ere  old  age  shall  arrive,  most,  if  not  all,  of 
us  will  have  been  called  to  our  final  ac- 
count !  But  admit  it.  "Well,  old  age  has 
come,  with  all  its  promised  advantages  for 
the  commencement  and  completion  of  our 
duties ;  for  the  preparation  for  an  event  for 
which  a  whole  life  has  been  expressly  de- 
manded of  us ;  and  for  the  performance  of 
those  solemn  requisitions,  for  which  a  life 
extended  to  its  utmost  limits  can  never 
be  too  long.  We  are  as  weak  and  as  in- 
6 


82  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

firm  as  could  possibly  be  wished  for  our 
purpose.  Passion  and  appetite  are  dead; 
the  illusions  of  life  are  dispelled ;  and  the 
world,  so  bright  with  its  attractions,  has  lost 
its  power.  We  are  forlorn  and  miserable ; 
our  friends  have  dropped  around  us  like 
autumn  leaves,  and  we  are  left  to  buffet 
the  pitiless  storms  of  age  alone  and 
amongst  strangers.  Disease,  too,  is  rack- 
ing our  frames ;  and  every  thing  about  us 
is  conspiring  to  loosen  our  hold  upon  the 
earth,  to  rouse  us  to  a  sense  of  our  danger, 
and  of  our  rapid  approach  to  the  grave. 
But  we  forget,  that,  with  our  animal 
powers,  our  minds  have  decayed ;  the  frosts 
of  time  have  collected  about  the  heart,  and 
sealed  up  every  avenue  to  sympathy  and 
affection.  Our  sensibility  to  impression  is 
impaired;  and  the  moral  sense,  so  long 
silenced  and  subdued,  has  lost  its  power  of 
action.  Or,  if  conscience  be  roused  from  a 
lethargy  so  dreadful,  to  a  sense  of  remorse, 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       83 

our  contrition  must  be  feeble  and  imperfect, 
since  memory,  now  almost  extinguished, 
can  but  indistinctly  caU  over  the  catalogue 
of  sinful  neglects  and  criminal  indulgences. 
This  is  the  state  we  thought  so  auspi- 
cious, so  favorable,  to  repair  the  errors  of  a 
misspent  or  a  corrupt  and  polluted  life.  I 
say  not  that  amendment  is  impossible,  even 
when  deferred  to  so  late  a  period  of  exist- 
ence. But  I  do  say  that  he  chance  of  suc- 
cess is  all  but  a  hopeless  one,  and  I  appeal 
to  experience  for  the  truth  of  the  assertion. 
Show  me  the  man,  who  has  spent  a  life  of 
degrading  negligence,  with  a  body  decayed 
and  broken  down  by  debasing  pleasures, 
and  a  mind  exhausted  and  polluted  by  sin- 
ful indulgence,  or  who  has  passed  his  life 
only  with  a  careless  indifference  to  the  con- 
cerns of  the  future ;  and  has,  at  its  close,  so 
deeply  lamented,  and  so  far  atoned  for  the 
errors  of  the  past,  as  to  imbibe  the  spirit, 
and  be  animated  and  warmed  by  the  prin- 


84  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

ciples  and  feelings,  he  had  so  long  and  so 
wantonly  abused.  Show  me  the  man  I 
I  say  not  but  he  may  be  found;  but,  for 
every  such  one,  I  will  show  you  a  thou- 
sand, who,  after  repeated  promises  of  dis- 
tant amendment,  have  gone  down  with 
gray  hairs  to  their  graves,  without  a  sin- 
gle hope  to  brighten  the  darkness  and 
alleviate  the  terrors  which  hang  over  an 
hereafter;  who,  in  their  passage  through 
life,  at  its  different  stages,  like  us  it  may 
be,  "  resolved,  and  re-resolved,  and  died  the 
same." 

Again,  we  think  too  lightly  of  intellec- 
tual and  moral  improvement;  for  in  this 
consists  the  greatest  happiness  and  highest 
dignity  of  our  nature.  It  is  mind  which 
will  render  us  useful  and  honorable  in  the 
world,  which  will  survive  the  shocks  of 
misfortune  and  the  sleep  of  the  grave. 
Nor,  as  we  believe,  can  any  distant  amend- 
ment atone  for  a  neglect  to  improve  it. 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       85 

And  what  a  solemn  consideration  is  this ! 
We  say,  then,  that,  if  improvement  be 
neglected,  the  neglect  is  an  irreparable 
one;  we  must  suffer  for  it  in  this  world, 
and  in  the  world  which  is  to  come :  its 
consequences  are  eternal;  and  no  repent- 
ance, no  future  amendment,  can  ever  repair 
the  loss.  What !  and  can  this  possibly  be 
true!  Is  not  happiness  promised  to  the 
returning  prodigal?  Is  it  ever  too  late  to 
repent,  and  meet  with  acceptance  ?  No. 
It  'is  never  too  late ;  and  the  penitent, 
the  contrite  in  spirit,  shall  be  for  ever 
happy  in  heaven.  Still,  we  repeat  and 
believe,  that  the  consequences  of  neglect- 
ing to  cultivate  and  advance  the  moral 
and  intellectual  powers  which  God  has 
given  us  are  strictly  eternal.  For  what  is 
heaven  but  a  heaven  of  intellect  and  of 
affection,  where  mind  meets  mind  in  its 
upward  flight,  still  further  unfolding  and 
developing  its  powers,  going  onward  in 


86  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

knowledge  and  virtue,  still  brightening 
from  glory  to  glory,  and  approaching  still 
nearer  and  nearer  the  great  Source  of  light 
and  intelligence,  throughout  the  boundless 
ages  of  eternity?  We  cannot  conceive  of 
supreme  felicity  as  consisting  in  mere  free- 
dom from  sin  and  from  suffering,  in  inglo- 
rious ease,  or  a  monotonous  round  of 
enjoyment;  but  in  activity,  in  calling  into 
exercise  every  faculty,  every  virtue  and 
affection  we  possess,  in  enlarging  and  ex- 
panding them,  in  fathoming  still  further,  it 
may  be,  the  designs  and  mysteries  of  our 
Creator,  and  participating  more  and  more 
for  ever  with  him  in  his  perfect  goodness 
and  intelligence.  Of  consequence,  then, 
we  must  enter  upon  eternity  with  advan- 
tages widely  differing  from  one  another  to 
continue  this  upward  progress ;  and  the  ad- 
vance we  shall  have  of  one  another  will  be 
proportionate  to  the  relative  culture  of  our 
minds,  and  the  moral  improvement  of  the 


DEATH    OF    ALFRED   MASON.  87 

opportunities  we  possess.  It  is  impossible, 
from  what  we  know  of  the  nature  of 
mind,  that  it  should  be  otherwise ;  it  is 
impossible  that  the  injuries  of  an  idle,  mis- 
spent life  should  be  repaired  by  a  few  hours 
or  days  of  penance  or  sincere  repentance 
at  its  close.  The  offering,  it  is  true,  that  is 
laid  upon  the  altar  of  our  God  by  the 
humble  and  penitent  offender,  though 
snatched  from  the  remnant  of  a  corrupt 
and  polluted  life,  will  be  accepted,  and  its 
subject  will  be  for  ever  perfectly  happy; 
for  all  the  capacity  for  happiness  for  which  ■ 
his  character  is  formed  will  be  filled. 
Yet  the  consequences  of  his  vices  and 
imperfections  will  for  ever  remain.  It  is 
so  in  the  natural,  it  will  be  so,  we  believe, 
in  the  moral  world.  In  neither,  although 
amendment  may  partially  restore,  can  it 
elevate  us  to  that  consummation  of  bliss 
to  which  we  might  otherwise  have  at- 
tained.   We  do  not  see  that  the  man  who 


88  ADDRESS    ON    THE 

has  debased  and  polluted  his  mind  by  low- 
pleasures  and  pursuits,  however  deep  and 
sincere  his  repentance,  can  be  immediately 
restored  to  a  capacity,  a  high  relish,  for 
intellectual  employments,  or  that  he  who 
has  never  advanced  in  moral  attainments 
can  at  once,  by  a  short  period  of  sorrow  for 
his  folly,  be  rendered  capable  of  the  highest 
moral  felicity.  No  more  do  we  believe  it  to 
be  possible,  that  the  mere  passage  of  such 
a  mind  from  time  to  eternity  will  produce 
any  miraculous  change  in  its  capacity  for 
happiness. 

If,  then,  the  neglect  of  improvement  may 
be,  in  the  sense  explained,  for  ever  irrepa- 
rable, in  its  consequences  strictly  eternal, 
how  important  is  the  cultivation  of  the 
mind,  how  important  the  formation  of  cha- 
racter ! 

A  word  more,  and  we  part  to  mingle 
again  in  the  cares  and  pleasures  of  the 
world.     We  have  seen  the  importance  of 


DEATH  OF  ALFRED  MASON.       89 

improvement,  and  its  happy  exemplifica- 
tion in  the  character  of  one  whom  we 
honored  and  respected  for  his  attainments, 
and  loved  for  his  virtues.  "We  admire  the 
generosity  and  purity  of  his  character,  his 
devotion  to  the  duties  of  his  profession, 
and  the  unwearied  industry  and  ardor  he 
exhibited  in  the  acquirement  of  knowledge. 
But,  above  all,  we  admire  the  energy  of 
character,  the  moral  courage  which  ani- 
mated and  sustained  him  in  the  discharge 
of  his  duties,  amidst  scenes  of  suffering 
and  of  danger.  Let  us  hold  his  name  in 
tender  remembrance,  and  endeavor  to  imi- 
tate his  noble  example.  Let  our  exertions 
for  usefulness  and  improvement  keep  pace 
with  the  current  of  our  lives,  so  that,  if 
death  should  suddenly  overtake  us,  we 
may  like  him  be  found  at  the  post  of  duty. 
Then,  whether  sooner  or  later  the  last  dread 
summons  shall  arrive,  if  we  have  fulfilled 
the  great  purpose  of  existence,  our  lives. 


90  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

like  his,  will  have  been  long.  For  "  hono- 
rable age  is  not  that  which  standeth  in 
length  of  time,  nor  which  is  measured  by 
number  of  years ;  but  wisdom  is  the  gray 
hair  unto  men,  and  an  unspotted  life  is  old 
age." 


AN    ORATION    DELIVERED    IN    PORTSMOUTH, 
ON  JULY  4,   1825. 

On  this  day,  my  friends,  the  hearts  of  a 
whole  nation  are  united  in  celebrating  one 
of  the  most  interesting  events  recorded  in 
the  history  of  the  world ;  an  event,  which, 
as  the  annals  of  nearly  the  last  half-century 
have  demonstrated,  is  to  us,  in  its  conse- 
quences, beyond  all  others  great  and  glo- 
rious.' There  can  be  no  division  of  senti- 
ment here;  every  eye  beams,  and  every 
bosom  beats  high  with  joy,  at  the  approach 


ORATION.  91 

of  this  jubilee  of  our  country's  freedom. 
All  ranks  and  stations  in  life  delight  to 
honor  and  commemorate  it;  for  no  one 
is  so  elevated  as  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of 
its  influence,  and  no  one  so  wretched  as 
not  to  participate  in  the  blessings  of 
liberty.  Around  its  altar  we  have  assem- 
bled, to  cherish  its  sacred  fire,  to  fortify 
our  patriotism,  and  to  renew  our  vows  of 
fidelity  to  its  cause. 

Our  first  tribute  is  due  to  those  who  pro- 
cured for  us  what  we  so  highly  prize  and 
enjoy.  Let  each  one,  then,  bring  up  his  of- 
fering of  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  those, 
who,  through  Providence,  stood  forth  the 
champions  of  the  equal  rights  of  mankind ; 
to  those  who  showed  that  jealous  regard 
to  law  and  right,  which  snuffs  tyranny  on 
every  tainted  breeze ;  who,  with  scarcely  a 
weapon  for  attack,  or  a  fort  for  defence, 
presented  themselves  as  barriers  against  its 
most  insidious  encroachments ;   and  who, 


92  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

through  the  course  of  a  long  and  bloody 
struggle,  were  as  illustrious  for  their  vir- 
tues, as  for  the  glory  of  their  achievements. 
We  may  have  heard  of  contests  as  sangui- 
nary, and  of  deeds  of  heroism  as  brilliant, 
as  were  theirs ;  but  in  vain  shall  we  look, 
in  the  history  of  revolutions,  for  the  moral 
grandeur  which  distinguished  our  fathers. 
The  baser  passions,  so  apt  to  burst  forth  in 
all  their  fury  in  times  of  political  excite- 
ment, formed  no  part  in  the  composition 
of  their  characters.  There  was  no  display  of 
impetuosity  or  passion,  —  no  exhibition 
of  cruelty,  or  revenge  for  the  accumulated 
injuries  they  had  received.  No !  there  was 
an  elevation,  a  purity  of  feeling,  rendered 
sacred  by  the  cause  they  had  espoused. 
They  engaged  in  it  as  for  something  whose 
value  was  to  live  beyond  the  excitement 
of  tlie  moment.  They  felt  it  to  be  a 
contest  for  principles  which  were  to  confer 
durable  blessings  upon  their  children  and 


ORATION.  93 

the  world.  All  was  calmness  and  delibera- 
tion. They  felt  the  iron  hand  of  despotism 
pressing  heavily  upon  them,  and  they  re- 
sisted from  a  firm  and  honest  conviction 
of  right,  and  with  an  unshaken  confidence 
in  the  justice  of  their  cause ;  but  not  till 
they  had  petitioned  and  implored  in  vain 
for  redress.  We  deprecate  as  false  and 
unfounded  the  insinuation  of  a  modern 
historian,  that  these  attempts  of  our  fa- 
thers for  reconciliation  were  but  so  many 
artifices  of  diplomacy  to  preserve  a  character 
for  moderation  which  they  did  not  possess, 
—  so  many  tricks  to  appease  the  disaf- 
fected, and  bring  over  to  their  cause  those 
more  loyally  disposed  than  themselves.  It 
is  an  attack  upon  their  integrity,  which 
no  American  can  brook.  No:  they  were 
honest  in  their  endeavors  for  an  honor- 
able adjustment  of  the  differences.  The 
very  character  of  the  men  engaged  proves 
this  ;  the  unwavering  attachment  they  had 


94  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

always  manifested  to  the  mother-country 
proves  it ;  the  ceaseless  efforts  they  made, 
through  almotit  the  whole  course  of  the 
conflict,  prove  it;  nay,  more,  the  forlorn- 
ness,  the  apparent  hopelessness,  of  the 
cause  they  had  espoused,  attests  their 
sincerity  of  intention.  We  wish  to  defend 
their  memories  from  the  slightest  imputa- 
tion, to  do  honor  to  all  their  virtues,  and  to 
hold  them  in  grateful  reverence. 

It  is  not,  then,  merely  their  heroism  and 
prowess  in  arms  that  we  admire,  though 
instances  might  be  adduced,  of  more  than 
Spartan  valour,  such  as  Rome,  in  her  best 
days,  would  have  delighted  to  honor; 
but  that  patient  endurance  of  injury,  till 
endurance  became  no  longer  a  virtue,  that 
benevolence,  that  genuine  simplicity  and 
singleness  of  heart  in  their  exertions,  fiyst 
to  avert,  and  then  to  mitigate,  the  cala- 
mities of  war.  And,  above  all,  when  sur- 
rounded, as  they  were,  by  an  implacable 


OKATION.  95 

foe,  and  suffering  from  famine  and  disease, 
we  admire  that  unbending  patriotism  which 
no  allurements  could  corrupt;  that  firm- 
ness of  purpose  which  no  calamities  could 
shake ;  that  entire  immolation  of  self  in  the 
cause  of  their  country,  that  prudence  and 
wisdom  in  providing  for  its  wants  and 
guarding  against  its  dangers,  in  encourag- 
ing the  timid,  rousing  the  irresolute,  stimu- 
lating the  torpid,  conciliating  the  adverse, 
and  subduing  the  factious.  These  were  the 
virtues,  these  were  the  traits  of  character, 
of  those  master-spirits  of  the  Revolution, 
which  distinguished  them  from  all  others, 
and  of  which  every  American  has  reason 
to  be  proud. 

Love  of  country  in  them  seemed  to  be 
a  part  of  their  religion,  —  as  sacred  and  as 
pure,  —  calling  for  the  greatest  exertions, 
and  commanding  the  greatest  sacrifices. 
Personal  aggrandisement  had  no  attrac- 
tions for  them  :  their  country  vindicated, 


96  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

their  ambition  was  satisfied.  Illustrious 
patriots  I  The  glorious  work  achieved, 
their  duties  done,  —  most  of  them  sleep  in 
the  bosom  of  that  soil  they  so  gallantly  de- 
fended. Peace  to  their  ashes, — revered  be 
their  memories ! 

Whatever  of  civil  and  political  freedom 
we  enjoy,  we  owe  to  them.  Whatever 
blessings  have  resulted  to  us  in  the  world 
from  our  independence,  we  owe  to  them. 
That  our  now  great  and  happy  country 
is  not  still  groaning  under  the  chains  of 
a  foreign  despotism,  is  because  they  guard- 
ed and  protected  the  weakness  of  her  in- 
fancy. 

"  They  were  the  watchmen  by  an  Empire's  cradle, 
Whose  youthful  sinews  showed  like  Rome's ;  whose  head 
Tempestuous  rears  the  ice- encrusted  cap 
Sparkling  with  polar  splendors,  while  her  skirts 
Catch  perfume  from  the  isles ;  whose  trident  y6t 
Must  awe  in  either  ocean ;  whose  strong  hand 
Freedom's  immortal  banner  grasps,  and  waves 
Its  spangled  glories  o'er  the  envying  world." 


ORATION.  97 

But  it  is  not  to  the  boundaries  of  our  own 
country  that  the  blessings  of  our  glorious 
Revolution  are  limited.  In  the  emphatic 
words  of  the  illustrious  guest  of  the  nation, 
"  The  first  gun  fired  at  Lexington  was  the 
signal-gun  to  the  liberty  of  the  world." 
The  spirit  of  liberty,  first  nurtured  here,  has 
with  its  fire  electric  pervaded  unnumbered 
hearts,  and  roused  to  enthusiasm  in  her 
cause,  the  torpid,  the  abject,  and  degraded 
of  all  countries.  Here  commenced  that 
well-ordered  series  of  oppositions,  that  sys- 
tem of  revolutions,  if  I  may  so  speak,  which, 
like  the  terrible  convulsions  of  nature,  have 
in  our  own  times  shaken  kingdoms  and 
thrones  to  their  centre.  It  is  not  saying 
too  much,  that  our  success  has  opened  a 
new  and  a  brighter  prospect  in  human 
affairs;  that  the  happy  laws  under  which 
we  live,  and  the  free  institutions,  both  of 
government  and  religion,  which  we  enjoy, 
have  exerted  an  influence  in  leading  man- 
7 


98 


FOURTH-OF-JULY 


kind  to  more  just,  more  exalted  notions  of 
their  natural  rights,  and  in  dispelling  that 
darkness  and  mystery  with  which  policy 
has  ever  guarded  her  systems  of  despotism ; 
that,  from  the  practical  and  happy  demon- 
stration we  have  given  of  the  absurdity  of 
kings  and  the  folly  of  hereditary  titles,  men 
have  been  induced,  by  an  application  of 
similar  principles  to  themselves,  to  inquire 
into  the  true  nature  of  governments,  to  in- 
vestigate the  legitimate  sources  of  power, 
and  hence,  with  an  understanding  of  their 
duties  and  obligations,  to  acknowledge 
no  other  sovereignty  than  the  will  of  the 
people,  no  other  badges  of  distinction  than 
those  of  mind.  It  is  in  vain  that  the  poten- 
tates of  the  earth  may  confederate  under 
the  deceptive  articles  of  what  they  have 
been  pleased  to  denominate,  in  former  times, 
a  Holy  Alliance,  for  the  better  security  of 
their  crowns,  and  to  be  the  better  enabled 
to  resist  the  encroachments  of  Liberty  upon 


ORATION.  99 

their  dominions.  They  may,  indeed,  pro- 
duce some  temporary  checks,  and  a  suspen- 
sion of  the  fate  which  awaits  them.  But 
the  bolt  is  hurled;  their  doom  is  sealed; 
their  destruction  inevitable.  The  spirit  of 
the  age,  which  is  at  work,  continues  to 
advance,  and  will  move  on  as  steady  as 
time,  and  as  certain  as  fate,  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  its  glorious  purposes. 

We  may  mourn  over  ill-fated  Spain  and 
degraded  Portugal,  dejected  and  crushed, 
as  they  have  been,  by  factions  from  within, 
and  desolation  from  without,  and  admire 
the  ardent  attachment  to  liberty  displayed 
by  those  who  have  fallen  victims  in  their 
cause.  But  in  their  own  bosoms  are  to 
be  found  their  sources  of  wretchedness. 
They  must  be  content  to  wear,  and  deserve 
to  wear,  the  galling  fetters  of  sceptred 
tyrants,  while  a  rapacious  priestcraft  are 
permitted  to  prey  upon  their  strength,  and 
French  wolves'  to  prowl  upon  their  borders. 


100  FOURTH-OF-JULT 

The  fountains  of  public  virtue  and  morality 
must  be  purified,  the  vacillating  O'Donnels 
and  perfidious  Miguels  of  the  age  must  be 
immolated,  ere  they  can  hope  to  make  a 
firm,  a  triumphant  resistance.  The  strug- 
gle may,  indeed,  be  long  and  dreadful ; 
but  the  principles  of  republicanism  are 
gathering  strength  from  their  diffusion ;  and 
their  dejected  sons  will  ere  long,  we  trust, 
rise  in  the  majesty  of  their  strength,  and, 
with  tenfold  vengeance,  break  their  chains 
upon  the  heads  of  their  oppressors.  The 
spirit  of  Riego  still  lives  in  the  bosoms 
of  his  descendants;  and  after-times  shall 
chant  the  praises  of  their  patriot  martyrs, 
as  their  memories  are  now  loaded  with 
obloquy  and  shame. 

And  as  for  Ireland,  impoverished  and 
persecuted,  and  that  too  by  the  land  of 
our  fathers,  disciplined  sufficiently,  as  we 
thought,  in  our  revolutionary  school,— by  a 
nation  proud  of  her  liberal  policy  and  insti- 


ORATION.  101 

tutions,  loud  in  her  professions  of  mercy 
and  benevolence,  and  claiming  to  be  the 
bulwark  of  religion,  will  not  the  land  where 
an  Emmett  bled  rouse  her  to  a  sense  of 
danger,  —  to  the  fear  of  a  more  dreadful 
repetition  of  those  bloody  scenes?  Shall 
Irish  orators  and  statesmen  plead  in  vain 
for  redress,  —  for  emancipation?  In  vain 
shall  a  Brougham  thunder  conviction? 
Alas  for  the  persecuted  "descendants  of 
the  cross ! " 

But  turn  we  to  brighter  scenes.  To  a 
nation  in  our  own  hemisphere,  which,  in  ex- 
tent, in  fertility,  and  climate,  will  vie  with  all 
Europe,  but  which  has  been  bowed  down, 
since  the  memory  of  man,  by  persecutions, 
cruel  and  relentless  beyond  parallel,  we 
have  already  extended  the  hand  of  recog- 
nition, and  saluted  her  as  a  sister  republic. 

From  the  venerated  plains  of  Greece,  on 
every  gale,  is  wafted  to  our  ears  the  ani- 
mating voice  of  freedom  exulting  in  victory. 


102  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

Guided,  as  she  professes  to  be,  by  the  light 
oi  our  mild  and  benignant  laws,  and  imi- 
tating the  precepts  and  example  of  our  own 
Washington,  Greece,  once  the  cradle  of 
science  and  art,  the  nursery  of  virtue,  and 
of  every  thing  noble  and  generous  in  our 
natures,  but  despised  and  enslaved,  —  a 
prey  alike  to  the  depredations  of  the  intel- 
lectual robber  and  to  savage  violence, — 
like  "a  giant  from  the  slumber  of  ages," 
again  puts  forth  her  strength  in  the  contest 
for  a  national  existence.  Humanity  weeps 
at  the  recital  of  her  wrongs,  and  philan- 
thropy shudders  at  the  barbarity  of  her 
brutal  oppressors.  It  is  a  contest  between 
religion  and  infidelity, — a  war  of  extermi- 
nation,— the  convulsive  effort  of  slavery  for 
emancipation.  But,  amidst  her  dangers 
and  sufferings,  we  will  not  despair.  The 
spirit  of  freedom,  which  animated  her  in 
her  days  of  fenown,  is  not  lost  in  the  slavery 
of  her  descendants.     The  modern  achieve- 


ORATION.  1(^ 

ments  of  her  patriots  for  their  altars  and 
their  firesides,  when  compared  with  the 
Marathon  or  ThermopylaB  of  the  ancients, 
lose  nothing  of  their  splendor  or  glory. 
There  again,  in  their  bloody  struggles,  as 
of  old,  it  is  liberty  or  death ! 

«•  They'll  victors  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  their  backs  to  the  field,  and  their  feet  to  the  foe, 
And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  their  name, 
Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  feme." 

The  most  feeble  attempts  in  the  cause 
of  liberty,  wherever  they  are  made,  we  hail 
as  evidence  of  the  spirit  that  is  abroad,  — 
as  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day.  It  is  the 
cause  of  the  whole  human  race,  the  cause 
of  religion  and  truth.  As  we  value  our  own 
institutions,  and  would  have  their  blessings 
extended  to  our  fellow-creatures;  as  we 
love  our  species,  and  feel  humbled  by  their 
degradation  and  sufferings ;  as  we  would 
wish  for  the  diffusion  of  knowledge  and 
Christianity  among   mankind,  and  would 


104  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

have  their  light  dissipate  the  darkness  and 
error  which  ignorance,  superstition,  and  bi- 
gotry have  cast  over  the  human  mind,  we 
must  look  forward  with  hope  to  the  time 
when  governments,  founded  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  moral  subordination  and  political 
equality,  shall  be  everywhere  erected  over 
the  ruins  of  arbitrary  power. 

To  return.  Never,  with  but  few  excep- 
tions, perhaps,  since  the  day  which  con- 
secrated this  as  an  anniversary,  has  its 
annual  return  found  our  country  in  circum- 
stances more  prosperous  and  happy  than 
the  present.  At  peace  with  all  the  world, 
and  aloof  from  the  jars  and  contentions 
which  are  continually  desolating  the  fairest 
portions  of  Europe,  we  enjoy  the  blessings 
which  a  free  government  and  free  institu- 
tions alone  can  bestow.  We  possess  a 
comitry  extending  its  fertile  hills  and  luxu- 
riant vales  on  every  side,  embracing  every 
climate,  and  rich  in  every  production  that 


ORATION.  105 

the  needs  or  the  luxury  of  man  can  pos- 
sibly crave.  We  have  seen  the  geographi- 
cal distinctions  of  our  country,  which,  more 
than  aught  else  perhaps,  threatened  its 
future  division,  broken  down  by  national 
highways,  which  facilitate  intercourse,  and 
invite  a  community  of  feeling  and  of 
interest,  among  its  different  inhabitants. 
Canals,  too,  as  if  by  enchantment,  wind 
their  way  through  forests  and  mountains 
hitherto  deemed  inaccessible ;  fertilizing 
their  borders,  and  bearing  upon  their 
bosoms  the  exhaustless  treasures  of  our 
inland  country,  to  every  quarter  of  the 
habitable  globe.  We  have  also  the  in- 
creasing privileges  of  numerous  institu- 
tions for  the  encouragement  of  industry, 
for  the  protection  of  science  and  art,  and 
the  promotion  of  knowledge,  everywhere 
widely  diffused ;  and,  above  all,  the  religion 
of  nature  and  of  nature's  God  without  re- 
striction, everywhere  open  to  the  worship 


106  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

of  all.  And,  having  assumed  an  elevated 
station  among  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
from  our  strength,  our  enterprise,  and  our 
ardent  attachment  to  liberty,  we  are  now 
building  for  ourselves  a  literary  name.  The 
insulting  taunts  of  "  Who  reads  an  Ameri- 
can book  ?  and  where  is  their  philosophy  ?  " 
are  gradually  losing  their  force  and  their 
bitterness  in  the  increase  of  genius  and  of 
intellectual  strength,  displayed  in  our  pub- 
lications of  every  character,  and  in  the 
mighty  lessons  on  the  philosophy  of  go- 
vernment we  are  teaching  to  the  world. 

This  is  no  exaggerated  picture  of  our 
country's  felicity.  Its  rise  and  progress 
have  almost  exceeded  human  belief.  Fifty 
years  ago,  had  any  one  predicted  of  Ameri- 
ca what  we  now  see  and  know,  it  would 
have  been  considered  as  the  vagary  of  a 
distempered  fancy,  or  the  dream  of  some 
visionary  enthusiast. 

With  these  bright  and  happy  scenes  of 


ORATION.  107 

prosperity  before  us,  where  a  grand  experi- 
ment seems  to  be  now  making  to  deter- 
mine what  a  nation  may  become  when 
placed  in  circumstances  the  most  favorable, 
our  motives  to  exertion  proportionally  in- 
crease, and  the  weight  of  our  obligations 
becomes  almost  overwhelming.  It  is  use- 
less, and  worse  than  useless,  that  we  enjoy 
such  a  free  government  and  institutions,  if 
we  use  not  our  utmost  exertions  in  preserv- 
ing, improving,  and  transmitting  them  in 
all  their  purity  to  our  posterity.  We  must 
gather  up  all  our  strength  to  the  work. 
"We  owe  it  to  those  who  fought  and  bled 
for  us ;  we  owe  it  to  our  own  reputation ; 
we  owe  it  to  the  world. 

From  whence,  then,  are  we  to  look  for 
our  dangers?  Not,  surely,  from  abroad. 
The  attempts  at  subjugation,  whenever 
they  have  been  made,  have  been  so  trium- 
phantly defeated,  that  we  hazard  nothing 
from  a  repetition  of  the  experiment.     Na- 


108  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

tnre's  walls  and  bulwarks  alone  are  almost 
a  sufficient  security.  No  !  The  danger  is 
from  within,  —  from  ourselves ;  from  the 
same  causes  which  have  swept  off  republics 
as  proud  and  as  elevated  as  our  own ;  and 
from  causes,  which,  if  suffered  to  diffuse 
their  influence  amongst  us,  will  as  assured- 
ly lead  to  a  similar  catastrophe.  They  are 
faction,  ignorance,  and  corruption ;  the 
natural  enemies,  the  canker-worms,  of  re- 
publics. Preserve  a  pure  and  an  active 
public  spirit;  from  the  wasting  and  deso- 
lating effects  of  faction,  ignorance,  and  cor- 
ruption let  us  be  kept ;  and  we  have  nothing 
to  fear. 

I  need  not  detail  to  you  the  baneful 
effects  of  faction  upon  the  peace  and  hap- 
piness of  society.  They  have  been  but  too 
severely  felt  in  the  contentions  between 
1;he  great  political  parties  which  at  one 
time  threatened  the  destruction  of  our 
country.     You  have  witnessed  its  power 


ORATION.  109 

in  the  subversion  of  order  and  morality,  in 
the  breach  of  public  and  private  confidence, 
in  the  animosities  and  jealousies  of  men ; 
destroying  the  bonds  of  social  intercourse, 
and  exciting  them  to  pursue  each  other 
with  the  hatred  of  murderers.  You  have 
seen  the  ties  of  kindred  and  affection  torn 
asunder,  and  every  thing  humane  and  li- 
beral and  noble  in  our  natures  withering 
under  its  "  infernal  blight  and  blast."  Dif- 
fusing its  deadly  influence  in  every  direction, 
you  have  even  seen  it  entering  the  sacred 
enclosures  of  literature  and  science,  and 
poisoning  the  very  fountains  of  know- 
ledge and  virtue.  Our  presses  teemed 
with  corruption,  tainted  the  atmosphere 
of  public  opinion,  and  assailed  with  the 
envenomed  shafts  of  calumny  and  slander 
the  fairest  characters  and  the  brightest 
names. 

During  these  times  of  political  excite- 
ment, we  have  witnessed   also  the  artful 


110  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

and  designing  of  all  parties,  under  the 
mask  of  patriotism,  worming  themselves 
into  place,  by  corrupting  our  elections,  and 
courting  our  favor  and  flattering  our  vani- 
ty, at  the  expense  of  our  understandings ; 
defeating,  in  fact,  the  very  essence  of  re- 
publicanism, the  free  and  unbiassed  judg- 
ment of  the  people  in  the  choice  of  their 
rulers. 

These  were  dark  spots,  and  I  would  that  I 
could  blot  them  from  our  country's  history. 
Nor  would  I  for  a  moment  recur  to  those 
degenerate  times,  if  passed  they  have,  but 
to  point  out  the  miseries  of  an  ignorant 
and  a  contentious  spirit,  and,  if  possible,  to 
apply  an  antidote  to  its  rancor  and  malig- 
nity ;  and  the  most  effectual  one  I  believe 
to  be  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge. 
This  seems  to  be  particularly  necessary 
under  a  government  like  ours,  where  every 
man  has  a  share  in  its  control,  and  where 
80  much  depends  on  the  manner  in  which  it 


ORATION.  Ill 

is  exercised ;  for,  while  a  single  individual 
may  confer  lasting  benefits  to  his  country 
by  a  skilful  and  an  honest  exercise  of  his 
rights,  who  shall  set  bounds  to  the  evils 
and  miseries  which  may  be  entailed  on  us 
by  one  unacquainted  with  his  duties,  or 
corrupt  in  their  performance  ?  I  say,  who 
shall  set  bounds  to  them  ?  For  it  not  un- 
frequently  happens  that  the  most  important 
subjects,  the  most  momentous  questions, 
hang  upon  the  decision  of  a  single  indivi- 
dual ;  and  that  one,  it  may  be,  a  very  igno- 
rant and  a  very  perverse  one.  Hence  the 
importance,  the  absolute  necessity,  of  edu- 
cating every  freeman  to  a  knowledge  of 
his  duties.  He  must  not  be  a  mere  ma- 
chine, the  tool  of  party,  or  the  dupe  of  the 
designing.  He  must  have  an  education 
adapted  to  his  country. 

Our  citizens  should  not  only  acquire  an 
elementary  education,  but  should  possess 
also,  to  a  certain  degree,  a  knowledge  of 


112  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

the  principles  of  our  government,  its  policy, 
its  laws,  the  wants  of  the  people ;  in  short, 
they  should  be  well  informed  on  every  sub- 
ject on  which  they  are  liable  to  be  called  to 
legislate,  or  to  exercise  their  right  of  suffrage. 
I  know  this  may  be  considered  as  visionary, 
as  proposing  what  cannot  in  the  nature  of 
things  be  carried  into  effect.  Be  it  so. 
We  may  not  expect  to  rival  in  government 
the  fabled  Utopia :  the  model,  however, 
should  be  perfect,  to  have  the  imitation 
even  tolerably  successful.  But  I  have  said 
that  a  general  diffusion  of  knowledge  is 
the  only  effectual  antidote  to  the  greatest 
enemy  of  a  free  country, — an  ignorant  and 
a  contentious  spirit.  By  instructing  men 
in  their  duties  and  obligations ;  by  encou- 
raging them  to  a  freedom  of  inquiry  for 
truth,  wherever  to  be  found ;  by  teaching 
them  the  principles  which  should  actuate 
their  conduct,  the  importance  of  their 
exertions  to  society,  and  the  highness  of 


ORATION.  113 

their  destiny,  we  have  the  best,  the  only 
security  against  an  abuse  of  their  power. 

It  is  knowledge  that  is  to  soften  and 
purify  the  heart,  and  to  render  it  suscep- 
tible of  virtuous  impressions.  It  is  this 
which  is  to  break  down  a  selfish,  contracted 
spirit,  and  to  calm  the  turbulence  of  pas- 
sion. It  is  this  which  is  to  enlarge  the 
mind,  to  correct  its  errors,  and  to  eradicate 
the  prejudices,  animosities,  and  jealou- 
sies, which  ignorance  and  corruption  have 
planted  in  our  natures.  Let  men  become 
acquainted  with  the  reasonableness  of 
laws  and  the  necessity  of  restraints,  and 
the  chance  is,  they  will  become  obedient. 
Make  them  wise,  and  you  will  make  them 
aware  of  the  imbecility  of  their  minds,  and 
their  proneness  to  error,  and,  consequently, 
more  tolerant  and  charitable  toward  others. 
They  will  then  see  that  there  may  be  dif- 
ferences of  opinion,  consistent  with  virtue, 
and  that  he  is  not  necessarily  an  enemy  to 
8 


114  FOURTH-OF-JULY 

his  country  whose  political  views  are  op- 
posed to  their  own.  By  cultivating  their 
minds,  you  will  render  them  superior  to 
the  tricks  and  intrigues  of  party  excite- 
ment, and  proof  against  the  corruptions  of 
a  licentious  press,  and  the  artifices  of  the 
wicked  and  designing.  Nay,  more;  by 
doing  all  this,  you  will  probably  render 
them  virtuous.  For  it  is  a  settled  truth, 
that,  where  the  greatest  ignorance  prevails, 
there  will  generally  be  found  the  greatest 
corruption,  the  greatest  obstinacy  of  opi- 
nion, and  the  greatest  intolerance. 

But  it  may  be  said,  that  much  has  al- 
ready been  done  for  the  diffusion  of  know- 
ledge. It  is  true ;  and  we  rejoice  to  believe 
that  we  have  more  general  intelligence  and 
wisdom  amongst  us,  than  can  be  found  in 
any  other  country  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 
We  should  be  grateful  for  this.  It  is  the 
principal  cause  of  our  present  prosperity, 
and  the  pledge  of  our  future  glory.     Our 


ORATION.  115 

motives,  however,  to  still  farther  exertions 
will  be  strengthened  when  we  reflect  upon 
the  importance  of  general  intelligence  to  a 
community ;  and  that  it  is  in  this  way,  and 
in  this  alone,  we  can  hope  to  preserve  the 
purity  of  our  institutions,  and  to  transmit 
them  unsullied  to  those  who  are  to  come 
after  us.  But  if,  after  all,  we  become  guilty 
of  the  sin  of  ingratitude  to  our  fathers,  and 
unmindful  of  the  claims  of  posterity  upon 
our  exertions ;  if  we  suffer  the  excitements 
of  party  and  the  petty  contentions  for  office 
to  corrupt  our  integrity,  and  to  distract  us 
from  our  duties ;  if,  in  our  anxiety  for  the 
aggrandizement  of  self,  we  lose  sight  of 
our  patriotism,  —  what  may  not  be  the  fate 
of  our  republic  ?  But  I  forbear :  we  will 
indulge  in  no  gloomy  forebodings  on  this 
happy  occasion.  This  is  with  our  country, 
we  trust,  but  the  morning  of  her  appointed 
career.  "  She  shall  continue  to  rise  and  to 
brighten ;   and,  (I  borrow  the  sentiment,) 


116  FOURTH-OF-JULY    ORATION. 

like  the  orb  of  day,  move  on  among  the 
nations  of  the  earth  with  steady  progress 
and  increasing  splendor.  In  her  wisdom 
and  virtue  will  be  the  greatness  of  her 
strength,  and  her  knowledge  will  give 
radiance  to  her  beams.  And  if  nations, 
like  individuals,  must  have  their  rise  and 
decay,  —  when  she  shall  have  arrived  at 
the  meridian  of  her  glory,  at  that  point 
from  which  a  nation's  prosperity  begins  to 
decline,  may  the  God  of  heaven,  who 
assigneth  to  the  nations  their  time  and 
their  place,  command  with  the  voice  to 
which  even  the  fixed  laws  of  nature  will 
bow,  that  she  long  stand  still;  a  source 
of  light,  a  centre  of  harmony,  and  a  mani- 
festation of  his  power  and  glory,  to  the 
admiring  world." 


117 


DOBS   HOPE   OR   REALITY   CONTRIBUTE   MOST   TO 
HUMAN   HAPPINESS  1 

Read  before  the  Portsmouth  Forensic  Society. 

That  the  happiness  which  is  derived  from 
Hope  is  superior  to  that  of  Reality,  is  an 
axiom  to  which  every  man  of  experience 
and  reflection  must  readily  assent.  Nor 
is  this  the  conviction  of  the  restless  and 
discontented  alone:  it  belongs  equally  to 
the  giddy  and  to  the  serious,  to  the  man 
who  is  still  drinking  at  the  fountains  of 
pleasure,  as  well  as  to  him  who  has  nearly 
exhausted  the  cup  of  misery.  All  will 
acknowledge  the  utter  insufficiency  of 
reality  to  happiness; — all  will  unreservedly 
confess,  that  there  has  been  no  occurrence 
in  life  which  has  given  them  unmingled 
satisfaction,  and  no  single  expectation 
which  has  been  fully  gratified.  The  reali- 
zation of  hope,  too,  even  when   attended 


118  HOPE    AND    REALITY. 

with  delight,  often  disgusts  from  an  unceas- 
ing repetition  of  its  pleasures,  or  is  alloyed 
with  evils  which  the  sagacity  of  the  most 
skilful  could  not  have  foreseen  or  preverited. 
Quarrel  we  must  with  fate ;  and,  if  no  solid 
grounds  of  complaint  can  be  found  to  exist, 
so  fickle  are  our  natures,  that  our  powers  of 
invention  will  be  taxed  to  furnish  us  at  least 
with  those  which  are  imaginary.  The  con- 
summation of  our  most  ardent  desire  is 
now,  as  we  say,  altogether  misplaced,  and 
it  is  too  soon  or  too  lat6  for  the  true  enjoy- 
ment of  its  transports.  Youth  is  not  too 
young  for  the  happiness  which  belongs  only 
to  the  present,  and  age  is  too  far  advanced 
and  too  feeble  to  feel  the  delights  which 
were  promised  to  the  future.  And  yet  there 
is  a  principle  within  us,  which,  defying  the 
experience  of  age,  gains  new  courage  from 
disappointment,  and  allures  us  still  forward 
from  scene  to  scene,  and  from  one  stage  of 
existence  to  another,  with  the  promise  of 


HOPE    AND    REALITY.  119 

brighter  and  of  more  lasting  joys.  It  is  hope 
that  urges  us  onward.  To  its  dictates  we  all 
of  us  cheerfully  yield;  for  from  their  in- 
fluence we  receive  most  of  the  comforts  of 
life,  —  of  a  life  which  is  fast  passing  away, 
amid  hopes  which  are  the  more  fascinating 
the  farther  they  are  removed  from  fruition, 
and  realities  which  serve  but  to  convince 
us  how  much  more  enjoyment  we  have 
derived  from  anticipation. 

But  is  it  true  that  the  joys  of  hope  will 
bear  any  proportion  to  those  of  reality  ? 
Is  it  true  that  the  gratification  of  the 
present  must  yield  in  comparison  with 
hopes  which  are  generally  illusory,  and  but 
too  often  merely  the  gilded  dreams  of  inex- 
perience ?  And  are  we  doomed  to  chase 
through  life  a  seductive  phantom,  which, 
while  it  amuses  with  its  promises,  and 
cheers  with  its  brightness,  will  lead  to  no 
substantial  enjoyment?  Let  experience 
and  facts  answer  these  questions. 


120  HOPE    AND    REALITY. 

Ask  those  whose  lives  have  been  de- 
voted to  the  acquisition  of  fame,  of  riches, 
and  of  worldly  distinction,  what  they  have 
received  from  possession  as  an  equivalent 
to  the  hopes  they  have  enjoyed  in  the  pur- 
suit. Admit,  too,  that  success  has  crowned 
their  various  desires,  and  that  their  path 
through  life  has  ever  been  strewed  with 
flowers ;  still  is  there  not  to  every  rose  a 
treacherous  thorn,  which  the  enchantment 
of  distance  had  concealed  from  the  view  ? 
and  have  they  not  received  from  reality 
pains  which  never  entered  into  the  fond 
calculations  of  hope  ? 

The  man  who  is  ambitious  of  wealth, 
by  the  aid  which  he  receives  from  the  in- 
fluence of  hope  in  stimulating  him  to  exer- 
tion, is  enabled  to  contend  with  the  various 
obstacles  to  its  attainment ;  and,  however 
difficult  the  road,  is  still  happy  in  the  pur- 
suit, so  long  as  a  fruition  is  promised  to 
the  desires  which  nothing  but  riches  can 


HOPE    AND    REALITY. 


121 


gratify.  Nor  does  hope  desert  him  in  his 
course,  but  still  allures  him  on  with  her 
seductive  smiles  to  the  bound  beyond 
which  he  has  promised  that  all  his  wishes 
should  end. 

And,  now  that  he  has  arrived  at  the  very 
verge  of  consummation,  why  is  he  still  rest- 
less and  dissatisfied,  and  still  ardently  look- 
ing forward  to  the  future  ?  And  where  are 
all  the  delightful  and  splendid  realities  for 
which  he  has  so  long  and  so  strenuously 
contended  ?  Some,  alas !  have  vanished 
at  the  touch,  some  have  faded  from  indul- 
gence, and  all  have  failed  to  impart  their 
expected  felicity.  True  happiness  is  sel- 
dom an  attendant  upon  wealth,  and  it  is 
rare  to  see  a  man  relax  in  his  avidity  and 
exertion  for  greater  gains.  The  truth  is, 
that  every  acquisition  becomes  the  mother 
of  new  wants  and  of  new  pains,  which  will 
still  draw  upon  the  sources  of  hope  for 
relief,  while  our  dependence  upon  her  for 


/ 


122  HOPE    AND    REALITY. 

her  future  bounty  is  in  no  degree  shaken 
by  the  ill  success  of  the  past. 

Similar  is  the  case  with  those  who 
have  devoted  their  lives  exclusively  to  the 
pursuits  of  literature  and  of  science.  The 
same  principle,  having  guided  and  protected 
them  through  all  the  trials  they  may  have 
to  encounter,  will  at  last  conduct  them  to 
the  goal  of  all  their  wishes.  But  here  the 
same  conclusion,  in  favor  of  the  pleasures 
of  hope,  will  be  the  result  of  their  experi- 
ence. They  will  readily  acknowledge  how 
much  more  they  have  enjoyed  from  the 
pleasing  anticipations  they  had  in  the  pur- 
suit, than  from  the  actual  attainment,  which 
has  served  but  to  convince  them  how  much 
more  is  to  be  known,  and  to  make  them 
conscious  of  an  ignorance  of  which  they 
were  unaware  at  the  commencement. 

Nor  is  it  in  regard  to  common  objects 
and  concerns  alone  that  we  must  feel  the 
force  of  these  remarks :   they  apply  with 


HOPE    AND    REALITY. 


123 


equal  strength  to  many  of  the  strongest  ties 
of  affection,  and  of  the  most  endearing  re- 
lations in  life.  There  are  a  thousand  ills, 
which  it  is  unnecessary  to  detail,  attendant 
on  the  possession  of  our  friends  and  of  our 
children,  which  never  made  a  part  of  the 
fairy  visions  of  hope. 

It  will  be  objected,  that  there  is  a  class 
of  realities,  the  pleasures  of  which  can 
in  no  way  be  approximated  but  by  posses- 
sion. These  are  a  release  from  suffering, 
and  the  indulgence  of  animal  appetites. 
So  far  as  the  gratification  is  essential  to 
the  relief  of  positive  pain,  of  hunger,  of 
thirst,  and,  in  short,  to  the  preservation 
of  bodily  health,  I  will  allow  the  strength  of 
the  objection.  But,  in  thus  yielding,  I  trust 
that  my  opponents  will  pay  a  passing  tri- 
bute to  hope  for  the  agency  she  has  had  in 
exciting  them  to  procure  these  enjoyments, 
while  I  shall  retain  them  as  exceptions 
merely  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  general  rule. 


124  HOPE    AND    REALITY. 

All  the  indulgences  of  appetite,  however, 
beyond  the  limits  we  have  prescribed,  are 
so  short  in  their  duration,  so  easily  satiated 
by  habit,  and  so  often  the  causes  of  actual 
misery,  that,  while  it  must  be  confessed, 
they  give  more  joy,  they  will  also  appear 
more  amiable  as  well  as  more  fascinating 
in  the  prospective. 

Every  thing,  in  fact,  we  hope  for  is 
gilded  with  beauties  which  fade  in  the 
possession.  It  is  so  in  the  material  as  well 
as  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  world. 
What  distance  is  to  the  works  of  nature 
and  art,  hope  is  to  fruition.  And  the 
analogy  between  them  is,  I  think,  strong 
and  impressive.  It  is  distance  in  each 
which  "lends  enchantment  to  the  view," 
which  covers  the  defects  and  softens  the 
asperities  of  reality.  The  most  beautiful 
landscape  in  nature  would  appear  rude 
and  unpolished  on  a  nearer  approach ;  and 
the  most  delicate  touches  of  the  pencil  of  a 


HOPE    AND   REALITY.  125 

Raphael,  or  the  most  splendid  works  which 
have  fallen  from  the  chisel  of  a  Canova, 
would  lose  all  their  charms  by  too  close  an 
inspection. 

But,  while  the  objects  we  look  forward 
to  as  the  consummation  of  desire  and  the 
perfection  of  happiness,  though  attended 
with  pleasure,  are  in  reality  all  of  them 
clouded  with  darkness  and  woe,  and  at 
best  but  the  shadows  of  bliss,  which,  eluding 
the  grasp,  are  soon  lost  to  the  view ;  still 
it  should  not  be  forgotten,  that  the  path 
to  possession,  however  dark  and  difficult, 
has  ever  been  brightened  by  the  cheering 
beams  of  hope ;  and  that,  whatever  may 
have  been  the  miseries  we  have  endured 
from  reality,  she  has  given  us  no  pain  in 
the  pursuit.  It  is  indeed  from  this  peculiar 
feature  in  her  character  that  I  principally 
argue  for  the  superiority  of  her  pleasures. 
Again,  while  many  of  the  pleasures  which 
are  derived  from  reality  are  short  in  their 


126  HOPE    AND    REALITY. 

duration,  and  most  of  them  declining  in 
strength  from  the  moment  of  possession, 
hope  is  ever  on  the  alert,  ever  active,  and 
generally  increasing  in  intensity  as  it  ap- 
proaches its  object. 

But  what  I  consider  of  greater  conse- 
quence than  all  to  the  support  of  the  cause 
I  have  advocated,  is  the  longer  duration  of 
hope,  and  the  greater  proportion  of  life 
which  is  spent  in  its  pleasures.  It  is  evident 
that  all  gratifications  must  be  placed  at 
sensible  distances  from  each  other,  and  that 
the  intervals  of  time  which  must  necessari- 
ly elapse  will  vary  with  the  circumstances 
of  each.  But  these  spaces  in  existence 
would  be  lost  to  happiness,  did  not  hope 
graciously  interpose  with  her  endeavors  to 
bind  together  these  broken  links  in  the 
chain'  of  enjoyment.  There  is,  in  fact, 
scarcely  a  respite  allowed  to  her  labors  of 
mercy  and  benevolence.  She  may,  indeed, 
die  in  fruition ;  but,  like  the  Phcenix  from 


HOPE    AND    REALITY.  127 

its  ashes,  she  soon  bursts  forth  with  new 
vigor  to  perfect  the  work  of  general  hap- 
piness. 

I  have  thus  sketched,  though  very  im- 
perfectly, a  few  of  the  objects  of  hope  as 
they  occur  in  some  of  the  most  important 
situations  of  life.     I  have  given  to  posses- 
sion all  the  enjoyments  which  my  oppo- 
nents can  possibly  claim,  and  to  hope  the 
gratification  of  the  objects  she  has  desired. 
And  now,  we  ask,  on  which  side  does  the 
balance  of  happiness  lie?    On  that  of  hope, 
which,  besides  encouraging  us  in  difficulty, 
and  supporting  us  in  adversity,  has  ever 
been  ready  to  administer  to  our  pleasures, 
and  to  comfort  us  with  her  joys ;  or  on  that 
of  teality,  which   has  been  proved  to  be 
a  mingled  cup  of  joy  and  of  sorrow,  the 
ingredients   of  which   are   differently  pro- 
portioned   to    the  varying    circumstances 
of  individuals,  but  essentially  composed  of 
pleasures  which   cloy  by  indulgence,  and 


128  HOPE    AND    REALITY. 

of  pains  which  we  feel   not  except  from 
possession  ? 

It  is  difficult,  I  know,  to  convince  us  of 
the  truth  of,  a  proposition  against  which 
both  our  feelings  and  our  practice  are  en- 
listed. We  may  have  a  speculative  faith 
upon  a  subject  of  this  character ;  while,  in 
fact,  our  conduct  seems  to  claim  an  exemp- 
tion from  a  general  law  of  nature.  And  it 
may  be,  that,  in  view  of  the  intimate  con- 
nection of  misery  with  reality,  we  are 
disposed  to  arraign  the  goodness  of  our 
Creator,  and  to  complain  that  it  must 
have  been  his  intention  in  our  creation 
to  make  us  miserable.  But  will  facts 
justify  such  a  conclusion  ?  Is  there  any 
one  so  base  as  to  acknowledge  that  life 
has  become  a  burden,  and  existence  a 
curse  rather  than  a  blessing  ?  "We  were 
undoubtedly  designed  to  be  happy:  we 
are  happy,  and  happy  enough  for  our  situa- 
tions.    Nor  have  I  at  all  subtracted  from 


HOPE    AND    REALITY.  129 

the  sum  of  human  enjoyment,  by  ascribing 
it  to  a  different  source  than  that  of  reality. 
The  truth  is,  that  the  Almighty  has  tem- 
pered every  thing  with  justice  and  kindness ; 
and  what  he  has  taken  from  the  happiness 
of  reality,  he  has  mercifully  added  to  hope. 
Every  thing  under  his  administration  is  be- 
nevolently and  equitably  designed ;  there  is 
just  enough  of  pleasure  in  the  gratification 
of  our  wishes  to  encourage  us  in  hoping, 
and  just  enough  of  misery  to  loosen  our 
hold  upon  earth,  and  induce  us  to  look 
forward  to  higher  and  more  lasting  joys. 

Could  I  now  be  permitted  to  reverse  the 
picture,  it  would  be  still  more  faithful  to 
nature,  and  exhibit  in  more  glowing  colors 
the  pleasures  of  hope.  But,  as  the  question 
is  confined  to  gratification  alone,  I  shall 
make  but  a  few  observations. 

I  could  show  you,  did  the  question  allow, 
how  much  pleasure  we  derive  from  hoping 
for  objects  which  are  beyond  the  bounds  of 
9 


130  HOPE    AND    REALITY. 

probability, and  which  we  can  never  enjoy; 
how  thus  the  very  finest  feelings  of  our 
natures,  which  would  otherw^ise  be  lost,  are 
called  into  operation;  how  with  the  aid 
of  fancy  we  build  one  fairy  castle  upon 
the  ruins  of  another,  each  successive  one 
surpassing  the  last  in  beauty  and  splendor ; 
and,  more  than  all,  I  could  show  you  how 
hope  contributes  to  the  happiness  of  a  life 
which  would  otherwise  be  insupportably 
wretched. 

Hope  is,  indeed,  the  solace  of  all  our 
woes,  and,  as  such,  was  undoubtedly  in- 
tended by  our  Creator.  Even  in  heathen 
mythology,  she  was  considered  the  best 
gift  of  the  gods,  and  was  the  last  which 
fell  from  the  box  of  Pandora,  as  an  anti- 
dote to  the  miseries  and  ills  it  contained. 
And  it  is  not  only  when  our  bark  is  gliding 
smoothly  upon  a  summer's  lake  that  we 
feel  the  sweets  of  her  influence  ;  it  is  when 
the  sea  is  rough  and  the  waves  run  high, 


HOPE    AND    REALITY.  131 

and  a  shipwreck  is  threatened  to  all  we 
hold  most  dear,  that  she  benevolently  sup- 
ports and  protects  us.  To  every  heart  which 
a  sad  reality  has  broken,  she  offers  the  balm 
of  consolation;  and,  in  our  most  dejected 
hours,  her  beams  will  break  in  upon  the 
twilight,  when  the  sun  of  our  happiness 
has  gone  down,  as  we  may  imagine,  for  ever 
and  ever.  In  the  cold  damps  of  the  dun- 
geon she  offers  her  comforts,  and  wipes  the 
tear  from  the  eye  of  despair.  To  the  dying 
Christian  she  whispers  the  soft  accents  of 
peace;  to  the  expiring  but  penitent  sin- 
ner, the  hope  of  salvation.  And  when  the 
shades  of  death  have  gathered  about  us, 
and  the  boundaries  of  time  are  passed, 
may  not  our  principal  pleasure  for  the  fu- 
ture consjist  in  hoping,  still  hoping  to  know 
more  and  more  of  the  Infinite  Jehovah  ? 

"  Eternal  Hope !  ts  hen  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Pealed  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began,  —  but  not  to  fade. 


132  EXCUSES    FOR    THE 

When  all  the  sister-planets  have  decayed, 
When  -wrapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  vrorld  below, 
Thou,  undismayed,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile. 
And  light  thy  torch  at  nature's  funeral  pUe." 


EXCUSES  FOR  THE  NEGLECT  OF  RELIGION. 

Read  before  the  South  Parish  Society  for  Mutual  Improvement,  in 
1826. 

Though  we  lament  with  others  the  de- 
pravity of  man,  as  evinced  in  his  frequent 
commission  of  crimes  and  omission  of 
duty,  yet,  bad  as  the  world  is,  and  es- 
tranged as  it  may  be  in  practice  from  the 
pure  principles  of  the  gospel,  we  cannot 
but  hope  that  it  is  gradually  improving. 
We  rejoice  to  believe,  that  the  age  we  live 
in,  while  advancing  in  science  and  art, 
and  in  every  thing  which  can  contribute  to 
the  comfort  or  ameliorate  the  condition  of 
man,  is  distinguished  also  for  its  Christian 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION. 


133 


exertions  in  the  cause  of  religion  and  piety ; 
that  societies  and  associations  are  multi- 
plying about  us,  where  the  wisdom  of 
age  and  the  ardor  of  youth  are  combining 
with  a  liberal  and  generous  spirit  for  the 
suppression  of  almost  every  species  of  vice, 
and  the  promotion  of  every  good  and  be- 
nevolent design. 

Permit  me,  then,  to  congratulate  you  all, 
but  particularly  the  young,  at .  meeting  so 
many  on  this  new  and  interesting  occasion. 
We  have  assembled,  we  trust,  under  the 
most  happy  auspices,  for  the  purpose  of 
mutual  improvement  in  religious  know- 
ledge and  Christian  virtue.  The  subject 
is  one  of  the  most  noble  and  sublime  that 
can  employ  the  faculties  of  our  minds,  or 
engage  the  affections  of  our  hearts ;  worthy 
of  intellectual  and  accountable  beings ;  of 
beings  weak  and  frail  like  ourselves,  who 
should  live  only  to  become  wiser  and 
better,   who   feel   the    insecurity   of    their 


134  EXCUSES    FOR   THE 

present  existence,  and  are  deeply  solicitous 
for  the  future. 

Indeed,  so  important  is  religion  to  every 
individual,  and  so  tremendous  the  conse- 
quences which  it  involves,  that,  to  a  reflect- 
ing mind,  it  must  be  a  matter  of  surprise 
that  any  one  can  be  found  so  dead  to  his 
own  interests,  and  so  abandoned,  as  to 
remain  a  stranger  to  its  comforts,  or  ne- 
glectful of  its  precepts.  It  is  offered  to  us 
in  love  by  a  Being  whose  very  essence  is 
love,  to  guide  us  through  the  trials,  and 
temptations  of  a  changing  world,  to  sup- 
port us  in  affliction,  to  comfort  us  in  death, 
and  finally  to  lead  us  to  happiness  and 
heaven.  It  is,  moreover,  urged  upon  us  as 
the  only  condition  of  salvation ;  and  en- 
forced, if  neglected,  by  the  severest  thrcat- 
enings  of  judgment  to  come.  And  yet 
how  few  of  us,  comparatively,  appreciate 
its  value,  or  embrace  it  as  the  grand  and 
leading  object  of  our  lives! 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  135 

Could  a  being  from  another  world,  an  in- 
telligent being  like  ourselves,  be  introduced 
for  the  first  time  to  this  world  of  ours,  and 
see  the  rich  displays  of  a  Creator's  goodness 
in  the  wisdom  and  beauty  of  his  works,  and 
the  admirable  adaptation  of  every  thing 
to  the  wants  and  desires  of  the  race  which, 
in  his  goodness,  he  had  permitted  to  in- 
habit it ;  could  he  be  made  acquainted  with 
the  relation  existing  between  men  and  their 
Creator,  that  they  were  entirely  dependent 
on  the  benevolence  of  an  Almighty  Parent, 
and  miserable  and  weak  and  wretched  and 
helpless  without  his  care  and  protection ; 
that  every  comfort  and  pleasure  they  en- 
joyed, from  that  of  the  mere  consciousness 
of  existence  to  those  the  most  refined  and 
exalted  in  their  character,  were  entirely  the 
fruits  of  bounty  and  kindness ;  that  his  love 
for  them  was  that  of  a  tender  Parent  for  his 
children,  accommodating  his  discipline  to 
their  varied    characters    and  dispositions, 


136  EXCUSES    FOR   THE 

exacting  no  duties  from  them  which  it  was 
not  for  their  happiness  to  perform,  nor 
inflicting  punishment  but  for  their  good ; 
who  had  made  them  accountable  beings, 
and  in  kindness  had  given  them  but  a  short 
time  for  preparation  here,  that  he  might  the 
sooner  introduce  them  to  a  higher  and  hap- 
pier state  of  existence,  and  yet  long  enough, 
if  improved,  to  ensure  them  the  rewards  of 
the  faithful;  —  should  he,  further,  be  told 
that  this  Almighty  Being,  in  addition  to  an 
animal  existence,  had  given  them  intellec- 
tual natures,  with  a  capacity  for  improve- 
ment unlimited  and  eternal,  souls  which 
were  to  live  for  ever ;  that  he  had  created 
them  after  his  own  image,  and  but  little 
lower  than  the  angels,  with  minds  by 
which  they  could  look  around  and  abroad 
upon  the  world,  and  with  the  eye  of  faith 
gather  new  and  unceasing  arguments  for 
praise  and  adoration  ;  that  to  their  mental 
endowments  he  had  annexed  a  moral  sense 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  137 

as  a  faithful  sentinel,  to  warn  them  of  the 
most  distant  approaches  of  vice,  and  which, 
if  cherished  and  cultivated,  would,  with 
almost  the  delicacy  of  instinct,  point  out  the 
evil  from  the  good;  —  should  the  scheme  of 
divine  Providence  be  still  more  unfolded, 
and  could  he  witness  the  wonderful  com- 
bination of  means  that  was  employed  to 
prepare  them  for  a  future  state  of  existence ; 
how  he  was  continually  reminding  them 
of  their  dependence,  their  accountability 
and  future  destiny,  by  mingling  judgments 
with  his  mercy ;  endeavoring  to  loosen 
their  hold  on  earth,  and  fix  it  on  heaven, 
by  the  most  forcible  appeals  to  their 
feelings  and  consciences,  in  severing  the 
tenderest  ties  of  life  and  sending  their 
friends  one  after  another  to  that  bourne 
from  whence  no  traveller  returns;  and, 
above  all,  that  there  might  be  no  apology, 
from  the  sluggish  perception  of  their  na- 
tures, for  neglect  or  disobedience  to  his 


138  EXCUSES    FOR   THE 

laws,  how  directly  and  pathetically  he  ad- 
dressed himself  to  their  bodily  senses  by 
sending  the  Son  of  his  bosom  to  allure  them 
by  his  perfect  example,  to  instruct  them  by 
his  word,  and  finally  to  suffer  and  die  that 
they  might  live  for  ever ;  —  how  transcend- 
ently  great,  would  not  such  a  being  ex- 
claim,—  how  transcendently  great  and 
glorious  the  scheme,  how  admirably  adapt- 
ed the  means  to  the  end !  How  fortunate 
the  mortals  in  the  protection  and  love  of 
such  an  Almighty  Parent  and  Friend ! 
Under  a  government  so  perfect  and  wise, 
with  so  much  to  be  hoped  for  from  obe- 
dience to  its  laws,  and  so  much  to  be  feared 
from  their  violation,  would  not  such  a  being 
expect,  and  reasonably  expect,  to  find  its 
subjects  universally  holy  and  happy  ? 

But  what  would  be  his  astonishment  at 
the  vast  amount  of  sin  and  iniquity  which 
would  crowd  upon  his  view !  What  would 
be  his  astonishment  to  find  such  a  race 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  139 

living  without  hope  and  without  God  in 
the  world ;  enjoying  such  rich  gifts  of  his 
providence,  without  their  hearts  rising  in 
gratitude  to  the  Almighty  Dispenser  of 
these  blessings ;  drinking  in  iniquity  like 
water,  in  the  indulgence  of  every  species 
of  crime,  from  the  most  venial  to  those  of 
the  blackest  and  most  horrible  dye,  heedless 
of  his  laws  and  unmindful  of  his  fatherly 
corrections ;  to  find  with  what  untiring  zeal 
and  unwearied  industry  they  are  pursuing 
some  earthly  good,  in  its  nature  transitory 
and  fleeting,  to  the  neglect  of  the  only  good 
which  is  eternal ;  ever  busying  themselves 
about  trifles,  and  chasing  some  phantom  of 
happiness  through  a  weary  round  of  vexa- 
tion and  disappointment ;  to  witness  their 
indifference  and  contempt  for  the  dreadful 
threatenings  of  the  Almighty,  and  the 
admonitions  of  his  providence  ;  unmoved 
by  a  sigh  of  penitence  and  remorse  for 
themselves,  following  one  friend  after  an- 


140 


EXCUSES    FOR   THE 


other  to  the  grave,  overwhelmed  it  may 
be  with  a  selfish  grief,  but  despising  the 
rich  offer  of  a  Saviour;  to  witness  their 
wretched  approach  to  the  grave,  standing 
upon  the  brink  of  eternity,  without  a  single 
comfort  in  review  of  the  past,  or  a  single 
hope  for  the  future;  and  finally  sinking 
into  misery  indescribably  wretched!  —  mo- 
numents at  once  of  God's  goodness  in  their 
creation,  and  of  their  own  folly  and  guilt 
in  perverting  such  free  and  unbounded 
privileges ! 

And  now,  in  view  of  the  unmerited 
goodness  of  God  and  of  their  guilty  dis- 
obedience, what  would  such  a  being  as  we 
have  been  supposing,  what  should  we,  say 
of  this  sinful  race?  Rational  beings,  are 
they  dialled?  Should  we  not  rather  de- 
nounce them  as  madmen  and  fools,  aban- 
doned sinners,  and  justly  meriting  the 
punishment  due  to  so  much  wickedness  and 
folly?     Then,  alas  !  have  we  pronounced  a 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  141 

sentence  upon  ourselves.  We  are  that 
guilty  race ;  and  a  great  proportion  of  us, 
I  fear,  deserve  the  awful  doom  pronounced 
upon  the  ungodly. 

Knowing  then,  as  we  all  must,  both  from 
experience  and  revelation,  that  there  is  but 
one  way  by  which  we   can   escape   that 
awful   doom,   by  which   we   can   become 
permanently  happy,  why  do  not  more  of 
us   pursue   it?      If  it  is   so  irrational,  as 
well  as  wicked,  to  pursue   an  irreligious 
life,   the    question    becomes    an    interest- 
ing one,  why  so  few  of  the  young  devote 
themselves  to   the   services   of   God.      Is 
there  any  natural  obstacle  which  we  can- 
not resist  ?     If  there  is,  we  are  rather  to  be 
pitied  than  censured.     Is  there  any  thing 
like  a  natural  depravity  of  the  heart,  which 
leads  us  to  hate,  and  consequently  to  dis- 
regard, his  laws  ?     No.     I  will  answer  for 
them :  we  have  never  formed  any  settled 
deliberate  purpose  of  being  bad ;  we  never 


142  EXCUSES    FOR    THE 

do  a  bad  action  merely  because  it  is  bad, 
and  from  an  implacable  hatred  to  the  Being 
who  made  us.  This  would  indeed  indicate 
an  inherent,  total  depravity  of  our  natures. 
But  we  disavow  it;  we  cannot  hate  a 
being  whom  we  cannot  injure,  and  whose 
matchless  perfections,  if  we  do  not  love 
and  obey,  we  cannot  but  venerate.  On 
the  contrary,  I  believe  that  there  is  scarcely 
the  being  to  be  found  but  hopes  and  in- 
tends, one  day  or  other,  to  become  a  reli- 
srious  man.  I  believe,  so  far  is  man  from 
being  totally  and  radically  bad,  that  our  pro- 
gress in  wickedness  is  wont  to  be  extremely 
slow ;  that  it  is  a  long  time  before  we  can 
overcome  (if  I  may  so  speak)  a  natural  ten- 
dency to  good;  that, in  the  commencement 
of  our  vicious  career,  the  struggle  with  that 
faithful  monitor  within  is  painful  and  severe, 
and  silenced  and  worn  down  only  by  re- 
peated oifences.  I  make  these  remarks,  not 
to  exult  in  the  perfection  of  our  nature,  or 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  143 

to  espouse  a  side  on  a  disputed  doctrine  of 
faith;  but  to  exculpate  the  Deity  from 
participating  in  our  guilt  by  making  us 
corrupt,  and  to  vindicate  his  character  from 
the  aspersion  of  first  creating  us  bad,  and 
then  commanding  us  to  be  holy.  The 
truth  is,  we  were  made  originally  accoun- 
table beings,  with  faculties  and  passions, 
all  of  which  may  be  improved  or  per- 
verted, all  ^  of  which  may  be  made  con- 
ducive to  our  happiness  or  may  sink  us 
in  misery.  We  have  the  power,  and  we 
feel  it,  of  choosing  between  good  and  evil, 
and  the  ability  to  perform  whatever  is  re- 
quired. If,  therefore,  we  become  corrupt 
and  debased,  the  guilt  of  our  iniquity  at- 
taches to  no  one  but  ourselves. 

One  reason  why  the  young  will  not  per- 
mit religion  to  exert  its  influence  over  their 
affections,  arises  from  erroneous  impres- 
sions of  its  character  and  requirements. 
From  some  gloomy  but  unfortunate  speci- 


144  EXCUSES    FOR    THE 

men  of  its  power,  they  never  can  think 
of  it  but  as  cold  and  cheerless  in  its  ap- 
pearance, and  as  investing  its  possessors 
in  habiliments  the  most  melancholy  and 
sombre.  They  have  been  accustomed  to 
view  it  as  dark  and  chilling  in  its  charac- 
ter, and  austere  and  morose  in  its  prin- 
ciples, unfriendly  to  every  thing  social, 
interfering  with  every  amusement,  and 
even  with  the  common  pursuits  of  life. 
Hence,  to  be  religious  they  consider  the 
proper  business  of  age,  when  the  allure- 
ments and  seductions  of  life  have  lost  their 
power,  and  there  is  little  else  to  be  done 
than  to  prepare  for  death.  But  who  told  us 
that  pure  religion  is  hostile  to  the  innocent 
pleasures  and  enjoyments  of  the  world  ? 
Certainly,  not  the  Bible.  Much  mischief, 
I  am  persuaded,  has  been  done  to  Chris- 
tianity by  too  severe  and  gloomy  represen- 
tations of  her  character.  But  believe  me, 
my  friends,  religion  does  not  necessarily 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  145 

make  war  with  any  amusements  or  gratifi- 
cations which  are  innocent  and  rational, 
nor  is  she  to  be  viewed  as  always  clothed 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes. 

She  comes  to  us  and  claims  to  be  re- 
ceived as  a  kind  and  gentle  friend,  as  one 
who  would  do  us  good,  and  that  at  the 
expense  of  no  real  or  substantial  bliss.  So 
far  from  enjoining  on  us  a  solitary  and  re- 
served deportment,  or  encouraging  a  sad 
and  desponding  spirit,  she  rather  inculcates 
cheerfulness  of  temper  and  a  disposition  to 
be  happy  amid  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life. 
She  comes  to  us  with  a  smiling  aspect, 
and  with  the  accents  of  love  invites  us  to 
mingle  our  joys  with  others,  and  to  partici- 
pate freely  with  them  in  the  blessings  of 
Providence,  in  expression  of  our  gratitude 
for  the  riches  of  God's  bounty.  Through  all 
the  changes  of  life,  under  all  its  circumstan- 
ces, amid  its  joys  and  sorrows,  its  trials  and 
temptations,  she  promises  to  be  a  faithful 

10 


146  EXCUSES    FOR   THE 

companion  and  guide,  to  warn  us  of  the 
dangers  that  beset  us,  to  strengthen  our 
weakness,  to  be  our  joy  in  prosperity, 
and  in  adversity  our  never-failing  solace 
and  support. 

Nor  is  religion  inimical  to  ardor  and  zeal 
in  the  honorable  pursuits  of  life,  whether 
these  pursuits  be  those  of  fame  or  of  fortune. 
On  the  contrary,  it  encourages  industry 
and  emulation  as  conducive  to  the  general 
good  of  society.  Every  man  has  certain 
active  duties  to  perform:  if  he  neglects 
them,  he  disobeys  a  positive  divine  com- 
mand, and  discovers  his  ignorance  of  the 
very  first  principles  of  Christianity.  No! 
Religion  enjoins  the  faithful  exercise  of 
all  the  talents  which  God  has  entrusted 
taour  use  in  the  various  stations  assigned  to 
us.  It  forms  not  an  alliance  with  sloth  and 
inactivity,  because  it  commands  us  to  lay 
up  treasures  in  heaven ;  nor  discourages  us 
from  engaging  in  the  active  duties  of  life. 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  147 

because  it  bids  us  take  no  heed  for  the 
morrow.  On  the  contrary,  it  enjoins  upon 
us  to  be  active  in  business,  as  well  as 
fervent  in  spirit,  serving  the  Lord. 

But  we  would  not  be  misunderstood  on 
this  subject.  While  abridging  none  of  the 
innocent  pleasures,  nor  interfering  with  any 
of  the  honorable  pursuits  of  life,  religion 
befriends  them  only  so  far  as  they  are  in 
strict  accordance  with  the  most  holy  feel- 
ings and  principles.  We  must  ever  re- 
member that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
compromise  between  religion  and  worldli- 
ness.  If  we  would  become  sincere  votaries 
at  her  altars,  she  will  demand  the  offering 
of  our  whole  souls,  the  entire  surrender  of 
ourselves  to  be  guided  by  her  counsels. 
There  can  be  nothing  withheld  from  her 
influence.  The  strongholds  of  iniquity  in 
our  hearts  must  be  assailed  and  broken 
down;  and  every  vicious  propensity,  one 
after  another,  attacked  and  subdued.     She 


148  EXCUSES    FOR   THE 

will  summon  us  to  give  up  our  most  secret 
sins,  as  well  as  to  abandon  our  more  open 
transgressions.  She  will  exact  the  sacrifice 
of  every  unholy  passion  and  grovelling  de- 
sire, —  in  a  word,  of  every  thing  which 
can  militate  in  the  slightest  degree  with 
the  divine  requisitions  and  precepts  of  the 
gospel. 

Again,  we  are  apt  to  think  that  religion 
is  the  proper  business  of  age;  that  we  shall 
have  less  to  contend  with,  and  can  engage 
in  it  with  more  certainty  of  success,  when 
our  passions  are  blunted  by  time,  when  our 
appetites  are  exhausted,  and  infirmity  and 
disease  unite  their  influence  to  break  up 
the  ties  which  have  bound  us  so  strongly 
to  the  world.  But,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
madness  and  folly  of  an  argument  like  this, 
in  view  of  the  extreme  uncertainty  of  life ; 
of  the  possibility,  nay,  the  probability,  that, 
ere  old  age  shall  arrive,  we  shall  have  long 
before  been  called  to  our  final  account, — to 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  149 

say  nothing  of  this,  I  say  that  the  chance 
of  our  commencing  a  religious  life,  and  of 
conforming  to  its  requirements,  at  an  ad- 
vanced age,  is  almost  entirely  hopeless, — 
it  is  absolutely  next  to  nothing;  and  ex- 
perience, I  think,  will  bear  me  out  in  the 
assertion.  It  is  true  that  our  passions  and 
appetites  may  be  dead;  it  is  true  that 
disease  and  infirmity  may  tend  to  loosen 
our  hold  upon  earth,  and  every  thing  around 
may  conspire  to  arouse  us  to  a  sense  of 
our  danger,  and  to  remind  us  of  our  rapid 
approach  to  the  grave ;  but  then,  with  our 
animal  powers,  our  minds  have  decayed, 
our  sensibility  to  impression  has  been  im- 
paired, and  the  moral  sense,  so  long  silenced 
and  subdued,  has  lost  its  activity ;  while  our 
bad  habits  and  passions,  from  being  cher- 
ished and  indulged,  have  become  so  inter- 
woven and  incorporated  with  our  natures 
as  to  render  their  extinction  almost  impos- 
sible.    Besides,  admitting  the  possibility, 


150  EXCUSES    FOR   THE 

though  doubtful,  that  we  may  feel  the  influ- 
ence of  religion  at  an  advanced  stage  of 
existence,  —  what  sort  of  offering  is  that,  I 
would  ask,  which  we  are  laying  upon  the 
altar  of  our  God  in  remembrance  of  the 
kindness  and  the  numerous  blessings  with 
which  he  has  crowned  our  days,  and  con- 
tinued to  shower  so  liberally  upon  us  to 
so  late  a  period  of  time  ?  The  offering  of  a 
body  decayed  and  broken  down  by  the 
indulgence  of  vicious  propensities,  and  of 
an  exhausted  mind,  whose  vigor  was  ex- 
pended, it  may  be,  in  setting  at  naught  his 
most  righteous  laws.  Contemptible  as  it 
is,  I  say  not  but  it  may  be  accepted,  and 
we  may  rejoice  in  salvation  on  any  terras 
whatever;  but,  after  all  our  ingratitude, 
with  how  much  shame  and  confusion  must 
we  receive  so  rich  a  boon  at  the  hands  of 
our  Maker! 

After  all,  as  the  most  acceptable,  so  is 
youth  the  most  favorable  season  for  the  re- 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  151 

ception  of  religious  feelings  and  principles. 
The  heart  is  now  kind  and  generous,  and 
open  to  tender  and  useful  impressions  ; 
the  warm  currents  of  affection  have  not 
become  chilled  by  contact  with  the  world, 
nor  has  selfishness  and  avarice  frozen  up 
every  avenue  to  the  finer  feelings  of  our 
nature ;  besides,  our  habits  and  passions 
have  not  so  completely  enslaved  us  but 
their  fetters  may  be  broken,  nor  are  we  so 
dead  in  trespasses  and  sins  as  to  be  callous 
to  the  stings  and  reproofs  of  a  wounded 
conscience.  But  particularly  should  we 
embrace  the  present,  as  it  may  be  the 
only  opportunity  we  shall  have.  Reason 
and  every  day's  experience  tell  us,  that 
we  are  but  pilgrims  and  strangers  here; 
that  shortly,  perhaps  in  a  few  more  days 
or  hours,  will  the  cold  damps  of  death 
gather  upon  us,  and  our  breasts  be  heavy 
with  the  last  convulsive  throbs  of  expi- 
ring nature.     And  cannot  youth,  with  its 


152  EXCUSES    FOR   THE 

vigor  and  bloom,  protect  us  from  the  grasp 
of  the  stern  Destroyer?  What,  let  me 
ask,  mean  these  symbols  of  woe  ?  What 
victims  have  so  recently  fallen  by  our  sides  ? 
Why  strikes  that  knell  with  such  unrelent- 
ing rapidity,  that  scarcely  do  its  mournful 
notes  die  on  the  ear,  ere  it  reiterates  again 
and  again,  in  most  fearful  succession, 
the  solemn  peals  of  mortality  and  death  ? 
Their  work  accomplished,  their  duties 
done,  full  of  infirmities  as  of  years,  have 
some  aged  pilgrims  escaped  the  storms  of 
life,  and  found  at  last  the  long-wished-for 
resting-place  ?  No.  They  were  the  young 
and  the  fair, — the  fond  hopes  of  their 
friends,  the  ornaments  of  society.  But 
neither  youth  nor  usefulness  nor  goodness 
could  save  them. 

Indeed,  every  day  of  our  existence  fur- 
nishes new  proofs  of  the  truth,  that  we  all 
may  be  cut  down  in  the  morning  of  our 
being.     The   pathway   of   life  is    thickly 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION.  153 

strewn  with  those  who  entered  as  gladly 
and  as  joyfully  as  ourselves  upon  its  busy 
and  flattering  scenes.  At  every  step,  some 
faithful  companion,  it  may  be,  is  dropping 
by  the  way ;  and  one  by  one,  as  we  ad- 
vance, we  are  parting  for  ever  with  the 
dearest  objects  of  our  affection. 

In  view,  then,  of  the  dreadful  uncer- 
tainty of  life,  is  not  that  religion  of  con- 
sequence to  us,  which  can  suggest  a  single 
hope  to  brighten  the  dark  road  we  are  about 
to  travel  ?  Is  not  that  religion  of  conse- 
quence to  us,  which  looks  beyond  the  grave, 
and  teaches  us  how  to  live  to  die,  and  die 
to  live  for  ever  ?  The  truth  is,  in  no  con- 
dition of  life  can  we  be  permanently  happy 
without  it ;  it  should  therefore  enlist  deeply 
in  its  cause  all  the  faculties  and  affections 
of  our  souls.  While  it  is  essential  to 
enjoyment  in  prosperous  scenes,  its  hap- 
piest influfence  is,  however,  exerted  in 
those  which  are  dark  and  adverse.     Reli- 


154 


EXCUSES    FOR   THE 


gion  is  indeed  the  solace  of  all  our  woes ; 
it  is  when  we  are  encountering  the  storms 
of  life,  when  the  sea  is  rough  and  the 
waves  run  high,  and  shipwreck  is  threaten- 
ed to  all  we  hold  most  dear,  that  she  proves 
the  load-star  which  alone  can  guide  us  to 
safety  and  peace ;  to  every  heart  that  a  sad 
reality  has  broken,  she  offers  the  balm  of 
consolation ;  and,  in  our  darkest  hours,  her 
beams  will  break  in  upon  us,  when  our 
happiness  is  gone,  as  we  may  imagine,  for 
ever  and  ever. 

It  now  may  be  said,  that  there  are  many 
who  pass  through  life,  apparently  tranquil 
and  happy,  without  a  single  serious  impres- 
sion on  the  subject  of  religion,  or  bestowing 
even  a  thought  upon  an  hereafter.  But  we 
see-not  the  whole  of  their  lives,  nor  can  we 
penetrate  the  sacred  recesses  of  their  hearts : 
their  hours  of  remorse  and  anguish  are 
known  only  to  themselves.  The  time,  how- 
ever, will  come  when  this  self-deception  (if 


NEGLECT    OF    RELIGION. 


155 


self-deception  it  may  be  called)  will  be  seen. 
It  is  when  some  hidden  thunder  is  just 
bursting  upon  their  heads ;  when  they  are 
doomed  to  drink  of  the  bitter  cup  of  afflic- 
tion; when  the  shafts  of  misfortune  are 
rankling  in  their  bosoms ;  when  the  ago- 
nies of  disease  are  racking  their  frames, 
and  the  shades  of  death  are  gathering 
about  them;  when  they  have  no  comfort 
from  the  past,  and  no  hope  for  the  future, 
—  that  they  will  feel  the  frailty  of  the 
reed  on  which  they  have  rested  their  hopes, 
and  be  alive  to  the  conviction  that  religion 
i^  the  one  thing  needful,  and  alone  can 
satisfy  the  wants  of  an  immortal  mind. 


156 


ON  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  PERSONAL  RELIGION  TO 
HAPPINESS  IN  THIS  WORLD. 

Read  before  tke  Sovth  Parish  Society  for  Matvud  Improvement^ 
in  1827. 

On  a  former  occasion,  I  addressed  you 
upon  the  importance  of  religion,  and  endea- 
vored to  expose  the  absurdity  of  the  rea- 
sons which  men  give  for  not  submitting  to 
its  dictates,  and  cordially  embracing  its 
consolations.  I  endeavored,  at  that  time, 
to  demonstrate  the  folly  and  madness  of 
those  who  reject  a  religion  which  is  offered 
to  us  in  love,  by  a  Being  whose  very 
essence  is  love,  to  guide  us  through  the 
trials  and  temptations  of  a  changing  world, 
to  support  us  in  affliction,  to  comfort  us  in 
death,  and  finally  to  lead  us  to  happiness 
and  heaven ;  who,  moreover,  reject  a  reli- 
gion which  is  urged  upon  us  as  the  only 
condition    of    salvation,   and    enforced,  if 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  157 

neglected,  by  the  severest  threatenings  of 
judgment  to  come. 

This  subject  I  shall  now  continue.      I 
shall  attempt  to  show  that  personal  religion 
is    intimately    and    necessarily   connected 
with  personal  happiness  in  this  world ;  and 
that  it  is  consequently  important  to  possess 
it,  even  if  we  would  enjoy  ourselves  here. 
We  all  agree,  speculatively  at  least,  that,  if 
the  sanctions  of  religion  be  true  in  regard 
to  an  hereafter,  he  does  the  greatest  jus- 
tice  to   his   intellectual   nature,   and   best 
understands  the  true  end  of  existence,  who 
submits  to  its  precepts ;  for  it  is  certainly 
both  wise  and  provident  to  take  care  of  the 
future,  even  at  the  expense  of  the  present ; 
and,  especially,  even  to  sacrifice  pleasures 
and  gratifications,  the  greatest  the  world 
can  possibly  give,  when  in  that  future  are 
involved  no  less  than  the  boundless  ages  of 
eternity !    But  can  it  be  true,  that  the  man 
who  religiously  devotes  himself  to  the  per- 


158 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 


formance  of  his  duties ;  who  endeavors  to 
obey   all  the  commands    of   his    Maker; 
whose  life  is  a  continued   struggle   after 
those  virtues  and  graces  which  are  to  adorn 
his  character,  renouncing  every  secret  sin, 
as  well  as  abandoning  every  open  trans- 
gression;  who  is  steadfast  in  every  trial 
and  temptation,  considering  no  present  evil 
too  great  to  be  endured  for  the  confirma- 
tion of  character,  and  no  pleasure  or  gratifi- 
cation too  great  to  be  surrendered  whenever 
his  religion  or  an  enlightened  conscience 
pronounces  the  surrender  to  be  necessary ; 
in  a  word,  who  makes  religion  and  virtue 
the  leading  objects  of  pursuit  in  this  world, 
that  he  may  secure  the  rewards  of  the  faith- 
ful in  another   and   a  better,  —  can  this 
man  be  happier,  I  do  not  say  than  the 
notoriously  abandoned  and  wantonly  pro- 
fligate (for  this  would  be  unfair),  but  than 
the  man,  who,  solicitous  only  for  the  pre- 
sent, and  reckless  of  the  future,  limits  his 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  159   ' 

views,  his  hopes,  and  sources  of  enjoyment, 
to  the  present;   and  who,  in  his  life  and 
transactions,  is  governed,  honorably  it  may 
be,  but  exclusively  and  entirely,  by  worldly 
motives,  and  looks  for  his   happiness  to 
worldly  pleasures  alone  ?     Can  he  be  hap- 
pier than  the  man,  who,  heedless  of  the 
restraints  of  religion,  is  bound  down  only 
by  the  artificial  restraints  of  society  and  of 
honor;    who    follows    pleasure   wherever 
inclination  and  taste  may  direct,  whether 
it  be  in  the  walks  of  literature,  in  the  paths 
of  ambition,  in  the  acquisition  of  wealth,  or 
in  the  giddy  rounds  of  trifling  amusement ; 
but  who,  at  the  same  time,  purchases  no 
indulgence  at  the  expense  either  of  health 
or  of  character?      Can  he  be  so  happy? 
An  answer  to  this  question  must  obviously 
depend  somewhat  upon  the  ideas   enter- 
tained of  religion  and  of  its  author. 

Did  I  believe,  as  some  do,  that  religion 
is   dark   and   cheerless   in   its   views,  and 


160  THE    IMPORTANCE    OP 

austere  and  morose  in  its  principles,  inter- 
fering with  every  social  pleasure,  and  cast- 
ing a  gloom  over  even  the  common  joys  of 
life,  —  I  should  feel,  I  confess,  not  a  little 
embarrassment  in  endeavoring  to  answer 
this  question  affirmatively.  Did  I  believe 
that  to  do  honor  to  our  religion,  and  to  be 
fully  subjected  to  its  influence,  was  to 
denounce  ourselves,  the  world,  and  every 
thing  about  us,  as  indiscriminately  vile  and 
worthless  and  wicked ;  and  that  our  good- 
ness is  to  be  measured,  more  perhaps  by 
the  apathy  and  insensibility  with  which  we 
can  look  upon  existence,  than  by  the  thank- 
fulness and  gratitude  we  should  feel  and 
express  for  its  blessings;  —  did  I  believe, 
that,  as  the  Author  of  our  being,  out  of  his 
naere  good  pleasure,  had  made  us  by  nature 
polluted  and  corrupt,  so  he  had  commanded 
us  to  become  pure  and  holy,  and  that,  too, 
without  the  ability  to  do  any  thing  of  our- 
selves ;  —  or  could  I  believe  in  a  religion. 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  161 

the  tendency  of  which  is  to  throw  a  gloom 
over  the  fair  face  of  nature,  and  to  under- 
value and  blight  every  comfort  we  receive 
from  a  bountiful  God,  by  teaching  us  that 
all  was  lost  in  the  Fall,  traducing,  in 
fact,  the  very  works  of  his  creation  and 
beneficence,  by  perpetually  contrasting 
them  with  our  primeval  Eden,  —  the  ten- 
dency of  which  is,  moreover,  to  break  down 
the  ties  of  confidence,  of  affection,  and  of 
sympathy  which  bind  man  to  man,  and 
wed  us  to  our  family  altars,  by  teaching 
us  to  regard  one  another,  our  parents,  our 
friends,  our  children,  as  monsters  of  iniquity 
by  nature,  incapable  of  a  single  virtuous 
action,  or  of  imbibing  a  single  virtuous  sen- 
timent, cast  off  and  reserved  for  the  day  of 
indignation  and  wrath,  unless  plucked,  by 
an  irresistible  decree,  as  brands  from  the 
burning ;  —  did  we  believe  fully  and  firmly 
a  religion  like  this,  even  then  we  would 
endeavor  to  enlist  you  on  its  side  by  point- 
11 


162  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

ing  you  to  the  future  rewards  of  the  righte- 
ous; but  we  would  say  nothing  of  the 
superior  happiness  to  be  gained  in  this 
world  by  espousing  her  cause.  So  absurd, 
indeed,  do  such  doctrines  appear,  that  it 
is  strange  they  should  ever  have  access 
to  the  mind ;  yet,  dark  and  chiUing  and 
absurd  as  they  are,  men  say  they  believe 
them.  We  doubt  not  their  sincerity  and 
goodness,  and  could  heartily  wish  them 
more  cheerful  views  and  a  happier  religion. 
But  even  with  this  class,  after  all,  we  would 
hazard  the  issue  of  our  comparison ;  for 
experience  in  their  lives  and  characters  in- 
contestably  demonstrates  either  that  they 
do  not  practically  believe  the  contents  of 
their  formularies,  or  that  the  Almighty  — 
and  they  may  bless  him  for  it  —  is  more 
merciful  than  their  creeds,  and  makes  them 
happy,  even  in  spite  of  themselves. 

But  there  are  views  of  religion,  in  which 
we   profess  to  believe,  and   especially  one 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  163 

view  of  its  Author,  which  will,  I  think,  on  a 
moment's  consideration,  not  only  remove  all 
doubts,  but  place  the  question  beyond  the 
possibility  of  dispute.     I  refer  to  one  of  the 
most  lovely  features  in  his  character,  and 
one  on  which  we  ought  to  be  most  delight- 
ed to  dwell ;  because  it  is  one  we  can  best 
understand,  from  its  frequently  exciting  our 
own  bosoms,  and  calling  into  exercise  the 
warmest  and  deepest  emotions  of  which 
our  natures  are  susceptible,  —  his  parental 
character.     How  much  tenderness  and  love 
is  associated  with  the  name  of  a  parent! 
and  how  should  our  hearts  bound  with  joy 
and  gratitude  at  the  thought  of  possessing 
an  Almighty  Parent !     How  high  our  assu- 
rance of  happiness  under  such  a  heavenly 
Guide,  and   how  great   our   security  with 
such  a  Protector !     Yes,  God  is  our  Father. 
He  has  explicitly  declared  himself  to  be 
such,  and  is  frequently  addressing  us  by 
the  endearing  appellative  of  children.     Our 


164  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

Saviour  also  commands  us  to  pray  to  him, 
and  confide  in  him  as  our  Father  in  heaven, 
who  created  us  for  happiness,  who  loves  us 
as  his  children,  and  guards  and  protects  us 
amidst  all  the  vicissitudes  and  under  all 
the  circumstances  of  life ;  who  commands 
our  obedience  in  all  things  to  his  perfect 
will,  not  from  arbitrary  or  from  capricious 
motives,  —  for  we  can  add  nothing  to  his 
transcendent  glory  or  to  his  perfect  bliss, 
—  but  because  he  knows  what  is  best  for 
us,  and  sees  that  a  particular  course  of 
life,  in  which  he  has  ordered  us  to  walk, 
will  best  conduce  to  our  own  felicity.  This 
Almighty  Parent  has  willed  the  happiness 
of  mankind ;  to  be  obtained,  however,  by 
a  course  of  religion  and  virtue.  With  per- 
sonal religion  he  has  connected  personal 
happiness,  and  his  Omniscience  and  Omni- 
potence are  sacredly  pledged  to  sustain 
their  connection,  and  to  preserve  them  for 
ever  inseparable.     How,  then,  if  God  is  a 


PERSONAL    RELIGION. 


165 


perfect  and  unchangeable  Being,  can  his 
dutiful  children  be  otherwise  than  happier 
than  the  froward  and  disobedient?  I  see 
not  how  it  is  possible  that  they  should  not 
be,  without  subverting  the  gracious  princi- 
ples he  has  established,  and  rendering  him 
weak  and  fallible  like  ourselves.  The  reli- 
gious man  must  be  the  happiest  in  this 
world ;  for  he  is  pursuing  the  path  which  un- 
erring wisdom,  which  a  kind  and  Almighty 
Parent  has  marked  out  for  him.  Nor  is 
this  merely  an  inference  from  God's  paren- 
tal character  alone :  it  might  be  shown  to 
be  an  irresistible  deduction  from  the  perfec- 
tion of  all  his  attributes.  Scripture,  too,  is 
full  of  assurances  of  joy  and  peace  to  all 
who  love  and  worship  God  in  truth  and 
sincerity,  and  who  keep  his  command- 
ments ;  declaring,  most  emphatically,  that 
godliness  is  profitable  unto  all  things,  hav- 
ing the  promise  of  the  life  that  now  is,  and 
of  that  which  is  to  come.      Here,  on  this 


166 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 


point,  we  might  stop.  We  think  we  might 
safely  rest  the  question,  of  the  superior 
happiness  of  the  religious  life  to  that  of  its 
opposite,  on  the  parental  character  of  God, 
and  on  the  express  declarations  which 
pervade  the  pages  of  his  revealed  word, 
that  the  ways  of  religion  are  ways  of  plea- 
santness, and  all  her  paths  are  peace. 

But  so  imperfect  and  distrustful  are  our 
minds,  that  we  are  apt  to  be  better  satisfied 
with  facts  than  mere  inferences  or  promises. 
What,  then,  is  the  language  of  experience 
upon  this  subject  ?  We  make  this  appeal 
the  more  willingly,  not  because  our  posi- 
tion in  itself  needs  additional  proof,  but  be- 
cause its  importance  is  such  as  to  demand 
all  auxiliary  aids,  and  every  effort  should 
be-  put  forth  to  impress  its  truth  deeply 
on  our  minds.  We  are  all  in  full  chase 
after  immediate  happiness,  —  we  are  unwil- 
ling to  forego  a  present  for  a  future  good ; 
unwilling    to    sacrifice    present    pleasures 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  167 

for  those  which  are  merely  prospective. 
Make  us  believe,  therefore,  that  the  course 
we  are  taking  is  the  wrong  one  for  the  at- 
tainment of  our  object ;  demonstrate  to  us, 
by  what  we  see  and  know,  that  a  course  of 
religion  and  virtue  is  the  happiest  course, 
and  the  only  one  that  can  ensure  to  us  the 
object  of  our  desires ;  and  one  very  great 
obstacle  will  be  removed  to  our  cheerfully 
and  cordially  embracing  it.  The  motive 
to  goodness,  indeed,  may  not  be  of  the 
highest  order,  nor  add  much  to  our  Chris- 
tian graces ;  but  let  us  only  get  thus  far  on 
our  way,  and  there  is  hope  that  new  light 
may  break  in  upon  us,  and  that  we  shall 
become  less  and  less  under  the  influence  of 
motives  which  are  selfish  and  earthly. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  every  man's 
consciousness  attests  the  important  truth 
we  would  wish  to  establish.  Ask  any 
man,  I  care  not  who  he  is,  what  character 
he  believes  to  be  the  most  happy  one.      If 


168  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

he  lets  his  conscience  speak  out,  and  is  not 
brutalized  by  his  vices,  he  will  unhesita- 
tingly answer,  the  virtuous  and  the  religious 
character.  Ask  any  one,  I  care  not  who, 
if  he  but  love  his  children  and  would  do 
them  good,  what  course  of  life,  had  he  it  in 
his  power,  he  would  mark  out  for  them, 
and  wish  them  above  all  others  to  pursue, 
he  would  say,  a  virtuous  and  a  religious 
course ;  because  he  believed  it  the  only 
one  to  be  trusted,  and  promising  above  all 
others  the  most  substantial  and  enduring 
bliss.  Ask  the  man,  and  surely  he  must 
be  the  best  of  judges,  who  has  tried  both 
courses  of  life  (and  as  the  world  would 
think  successfully  too),  which  he  has  found 
to  be  the  most  happy,  he  will  answer,  the 
virtuous  and  the  religious  course.  He  will 
tell  you  that  he  has  found  a  balm  for  every 
harassing  care,  for  every  worldly  disap- 
pointment, and  every  wound  of  the  heart, 
in  the  sweets  of  innocence  and  in  the  con- 


PERSONAL    RELIGION. 


169 


solations  of  religion.  The  young  man's 
heart,  if  its  emotions  can  be  distinguished 
amid  the  roar  of  folly  or  the  din  of  busi- 
ness, will  bear  ample  testimony  to  the 
superior  pleasures  of  conscious  virtue;  — 
and  the  old  man,  on  reckoning  up  the 
sources  whence  flowed  the  happiness  of 
his  life,  if  a  happy  one,  will  pronounce 
that  religion  and  virtue  were  the  principal 
springs  of  enjoyment;  or,  if  compelled  to 
look  back  upon  days  of  darkness  and  sor- 
row, will  declare,  in  anguish  and  bitterness 
of  spirit,  that  religion  is,  after  all,  the  one 
thing  needful  to  the  completion  of  human 
felicity. 

Again,  experience  in  the  lives  and  charac- 
ters of  the  truly  good  and  virtuous  bears 
witness  to  its  superior  pleasures.  What 
fancied  bliss,  —  I  descend  not  to  the  de- 
graded sensualist  or  the  abandoned  outlaw, 
—  their  excesses  and  crimes  are  necessarily 
marked  with  sorrow  and  pain,  and  cannot 


170 


THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 


admit  of  comparison,  —  but  what  fancied 
bliss  can  possibly  attach  to  the  life  of  the 
man  who  is  merely  fair  and  discreet,  which 
belongs  not  equally,  if  not  in  a  higher  de- 
gree, to  the  life  of  an  upright  and  a  godly 
man  ?  I  cannot  conceive.  When  the  good 
man  partakes  of  the  blessings  of  Provi- 
dence, which  are  daily  spread  before  him  in 
such  unnumbered  variety  and  endless  pro- 
fusion, is  his  relish  impaired  or  his  taste 
vitiated,  and  has  he  less  enjoyment,  because 
his  heart  overflows  with  sincere  gratitude 
for  bounties  so  kindly  and  so  generously 
bestowed  upon  him  ?  Or  is  he  less  happy, 
and  are  his  prospects  gloomy  and  cheerless, 
because  in  every  event  and  circumstance 
of  life  he  sees  the  hand  of  a  Father,  and  in 
every  thing  feels  and  acknowledges  his 
kindness  and  protection  ?  When,  in  com- 
mon with  others,  he  pursues  the  honors  or 
the  riches  of  the  world,  are  his  enjoyments 
less  pure,  because  he  regards  them  as  the 


PERSONAL    RELIGION. 


171 


means  of  benefiting  his  fellow-creatures ; 
less  pure,  because  no  low-lived  trick,  or 
petty  cunning,  or  crooked  policy,  marks  his 
course  to  preferment ;  or  are  his  acquisitions 
less  pure,  because  he  can  never  demon- 
strate to  a  farthing  his  charities,  and  is  not 
over-scrupulous  in  exacting  his  dues  from 
the  hand  of  starving  penury ;  but  in  each 
case  preserves  a  peaceful  conscience,  a 
pious,  elevated,  and  generous  spirit,  exerting 
his  influence  ever  in  the  cause  of  justice  and 
virtue,  and  devoting  his  substance,  in  hum- 
ble imitation  of  Him  who  went  about  doing 
good,  by  a  constant  train  of  humane  atten- 
tions to  the  relief  of  suffering  humanity  ? 
Think  ye  that  he  is  less  happy  ?  Is  he  not 
more  so  ? 

If  accustomed  to  enrich  and  enlarge  his 
mind  from  the  exhaustless  fountains  of 
literature  and  knowledge,  or  tempted,  in 
more  trifling  hours,  to  pluck  flowers  from 
the  fairy  scenes  of  fancy  and  taste,  are  his 


172  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

treasures  less  valuable,  his  pleasures  less 
refined  or  ennobling,  because,  with  every 
acquisition,  his  heart  warms  and  glows 
and  expands,  as  he  habitually  connects 
them  with  the  great  Source  of  all  refined 
and  intellectual  joys?  Or,  if  his  mind 
takes  a  bolder  flight,  and  soars  into  the 
regions  of  science,  endeavoring  to  unfold 
the  mysteries  of  creation,  in  exploring  those 
vast  orbs  that  roll  in  space,  in  ascertain- 
ing their  relations,  their  magnitudes,  and 
motions ;  if,  unlike  the  skeptic  and  worldly 
man,  whose  contracted  souls  are  limited  to 
material  laws  and  secondary  causes  alone, 
he  should,  in  imagination,  shake  off"  the 
clogs  of  earth,  and  endeavor  to  penetrate 
the  veil  which  conceals  from  view  the  great 
first  Cause  of  all  these  mighty  wonders,  — 
think  you  that  his  mind  would  have  less 
grasp  of  thought,  or  be  less  elevated,  less 
dignified  or  happy,  because  it  had  gained 
from  God's  marvellous  works  new  reasons 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  173 

for  adoring  and  fearing,  and  new  motives 
for  loving  and  obeying,  the  supreme  and 
almighty  Architect? 

And  has  he  not  also,  equally  with  others, 
the  joys  arising  from  friendship,  from  social 
intercourse,  and  from  domestic  love  1 
When  mingling  with  others  in  the  scenes 
of  the  world,  or  of  more  private  life,  if  he 
forbears  to  incrust  himself  with  a  sordid 
indifference  to  the  welfare  of  society,  and 
to  the  wide-spreading  miseries  occasioned 
by  pride  and  arrogance,  by  collisions  of 
interest,  and  the  prevalence  of  gross  and 
vile  passions,  which  degrade  and  poison 
the  sources  of  enjoyment,  does  he  know 
less  of  the  joys  of  friendship,  or  is  he  the 
less  happy  in  social  intercourse,  because  he 
exerts  himself  to  subdue  the  violence  of 
contentions,  to  soften  the  asperities  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  to  tranquilize  its  jarring 
elements,  by  teaching  men  to  think  less  of 
themselves  and  more  of  the  happiness  of 


174  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

others,  and  by  inculcating  the  godlike  vir- 
tues of  love,  charity,  and  mutual  forbear- 
ance ;  because  he  endeavors  to  make  men 
wiser  and  better,  by  raising  their  standard 
of  moral  sentiment,  by  elevating  their  taste, 
their  piety,  and  by  the  promotion  of  every 
Christian  virtue  ? 

And  last,  but  best  of  all,  in  the  family 
circle,  that  sacred  *retreat  from  the  cares, 
the  trials,  and  the  sorrows  of  the  world, 
how  do  their  comfort  and  happiness  com- 
pare? They  both  have  blessings,  both 
have  joys;  and  blessings  and  joys,  too, 
which  only  he  who  feels  them  knows.  The 
one  regards  his  family  and  children  as  the 
dearest  objects  of  existence ;  and  his  heart 
sympathizes  with  their  tears,  and  bounds 
with  gladness  to  meet  their  smiles ;  visions 
of  earthly  bliss,  in  which  they  are  to  parti- 
cipate, continually  float  before  his  delighted 
fancy ;  the  present  is  all  peace  and  happi- 
ness, and  the  future,  at  least  so  far  as  he 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  175 

extends  his  view,  presents  nothing  but  a 
perpetual    sunshine    of   joy.       Infatuated 
man !      A  single  bolt  from   heaven   may 
scatter  all  your  rising  hopes,  and  make  your 
heart  to  writhe  in  anguish.     But  he  goes 
not   beyond  this  little  span  of  time;   all 
beyond  is  darkness;    he   seeks   no  higher 
good.     The  other,  besides  partaking  of  all 
the    pleasures   which    flow  from   virtuous 
love,  from   earthly   affections  and   earthly 
hopes,  keeps  his  eye  fast  fixed  above ;  he 
sees,  beyond,  a  brighter  and  a  better  world ; 
he  points  to  heaven,  and  leads  the  way, 
where  they  shall  meet  again  in  unbroken 
numbers,  and  meet  to  part  no  more.     Now, 
which,  pray  tell  me,  is  the  happiest  here? 
Does  the  flame  burn  less  brightly  on  the 
altar  of  domestic  love,  because  it  is  mingled 
with  the  incense  of  piety  and  devotion  ? 
or  does  he  love  his  children  less   fondly, 
because  he  constantly  regards  them  as  ten- 
der plants,  which,  nurtured  and  fostered  by 


176  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

his  paternal  care,  are  to  blossom  in  heaven, 
and  flourish  in  perennial  glory  ? 

We  have  thus  far  contemplated  these  two 
opposite  characters  in  the  brighter  scenes  of 
life,  and  have  allowed  to  the  irreligious  man 
all  the  pleasures  and  gratifications  consist- 
ent with  his  own  maxims  of  worldly  pru- 
dence and  morality.  And  yet,  if  I  have  been 
at  all  successful,  you  will,  I  think,  find  no 
difliculty  in  pronouncing  where  the  balance 
of  happiness  lies.  There  is  no  such  thing, 
however,  as  unalloyed  happiness  in  this 
world:  it  exists  only  in  the  vagaries  of 
some  distempered  fancy,  or  in  the  dreams 
of  some  visionary  enthusiast.  Ask  the 
most  successful,  those  who  entered  most 
gladly  upon  the  business  and  occupations 
of  the  world,  where  every  thing  to  imagi- 
nation was  gilded  with  hope,  and  with  the 
most  flattering  prospect  of  realizing  all 
the  desires  of  their  hearts ;  ask  them,  when, 
too,  they  shall  have  advanced  but  a  short 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  177 

stage  upon  their  journey,  how  many  trials 
and  disappointments  they  have  had  to 
endure,  and  where  are  all  the  splendid 
realities  for  which  they  have  so  eagerly  and 
so  strenuously  contended,  —  and  they  will 
answer,  if  they  answer  truly,  that  some  have 
taken  to  themselves  wings  and  flown  away, 
some  have  eluded  their  grasp,  some  have 
withered  in  indulgence,  and  all  have  failed 
to  impart  the  expected  felicity.  Yes,  life 
is  indeed  a  cup  of  mingled  joys  and  sor- 
rows ;  and,  if  we  now  follow  them  into  the 
scenes  of  trial  and  disappointment  and  af- 
fliction, the  contrast  will  be  still  more  strik- 
ing. So  long  as  life  glides  on  smoothly, 
with  few  or  no  trials  and  changes  to  ruffle 
its  surface,  to  the  careless  observer,  it  may 
be  that  the  man  who  fastens  his  hopes 
and  affections  upon  the  scenes  of  the  world 
floats  down  the  current  of  time  as  placidly 
as  he  who  habitually  elevates  himself  above 
it     But  who  shall  enter  the  sanctuary  of 

12 


■ 


178  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

his  heart,  and  describe  the  unhappiness 
that  reigns  within ;  the  vexatious  cares,  the 
blasted  hopes,  the  stings  of  conscience, 
the  pangs  of  remorse  for  wrongs  committed 
or  duties  neglected?  Who  shall  portray 
the  loneliness  and  desolation  of  the  heart 
estranged  from  its  God  and  from  the  com- 
forts of  religion  ?  And,  when  the  tempest  is 
gathering,  and  the  storms  of  adversity  beat 
heavily  upon  him,  how  forlorn  and  wretched 
and  miserable  must  be  the  man  whose  soul 
has  not  habitually  lifted  itself  to  com- 
munion with  its  Maker,  and  has  failed  to 
secure  for  itself  an  Almighty  Protector! 
No !  He  has  no  consolations,  no  antidotes 
against  the  changes  of  time.  With  his 
possessions,  his  gods  have  departed;  he 
has  cut  himself  off  from  the  only  sources 
of  comfort  and  support;  he  has  bared  his 
bosom  to  the  shafts  of  misfortune,  and  he 
must  meet  them  unaided  and  alone.  And 
at  last,  on  the  brink  of  eternity,  with  nothing. 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  179 

to  comfort  him  in  the  retrospect,  and  no 
hope  beaming  upon  him  from  the  future, 
he  sinks  hopeless  and  forsaken,  a  signal 
proof  of  the  utter  insufficiency  of  the  plea- 
sures of  the  world  to  satisfy  the  wants  of 
an  immortal  mind. 

Far  different  is  the  good  man's  situation 
in  the  hours  of  trial  and  disappointment ; 
for  these  are  the  scenes  of  the  good  man's 
triumph.  His  sufferings  in  life  fall  infinitely 
short  of  the  other's  ;  for  it  may  be  stated  as 
a  truth,  that,  although  he  may  have  trials 
which  are  peculiarly  his  own,  he  suffers  not 
with  others  one-half  the  grievances  which 
go  to  swell  up  the  catalogue  of  the  miseries 
of  human  life ;  for  so  chastened  and  sub- 
dued are  his  feelings,  and  so  well-ordered 
and  moderate  his  expectations,  that  he 
fairly  escapes  the  thousand  petty  vexations 
and  disappointments  into  which  others  are 
hurried  by  the  impetuosity  of  passion ;  and 
so  pure  and  elevated  are  his   sources   of 


180  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

enjoyment,  that  even  many  things  deemed 
severe  and  hard  of  endurance,  either  fall 
entirely  short  of  wounding  his  peace,  or  are 
borne  with  tranquillity  and  composure. 
The  truth  is,  that  troubles  of  every  charac- 
ter strike  less  heavily  upon  him ;  for  he  is 
constantly  disciplining  his  mind,  and  pre- 
paring it  to  grapple  with  misfortune.  His 
religion  teaches  him,  and  experience  is 
teaching  him,  that  every  thing  about  him 
is  changing  and  passing  away;  and  he 
looks  not  for  a  paradox  in  happiness ;  he 
expects  not  permanent  bliss  from  any  thing 
transitory  and  fleeting  in  its  character.  To 
losses  and  deprivations,  he  yields  the  more 
readily,  because  his  principal  treasures  are 
in  heaven ;  and  because  he  views  them, 
moreover,  as  necessary  to  the  formation  of 
his  character,  and  to  his  growth  in  the 
Christian  virtues  and  graces.  His  faith  is 
so  unwavering  and  steadfast,  as  to  refer 


every 


thing  that  befalls  him  to  a  kind  and 


'O 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  181 

almighty  Parent,  who  is  overruling  every 
thing  for  his  good,  who  knows  what  is  best 
for  him,  and  never  chastises  but  in  mercy. 
He  unreservedly,  therefore,  submits  himself 
and  all  that  he  possesses  to  the  divine 
will ;  thankful  for  every  thing  joyful  in  life, 
and  no  less  thankful  in  adversity  to  feel 
himself  still  under  the  government  and  pro- 
tection of  a  good  and  merciful  God.  Thus 
is  every  calamity  disarmed  of  its  power  to 
sink  him  in  wretchedness,  and  every  sorrow 
mitigated  in  its  force.  And,  in  the  dark 
hour  of  severe  bereavement,  when  every  joy 
seems  withered  and  blasted,  —  when  the 
hand  of  God  rests  heavily  upon  him,  —  he 
suffers,  it  is  true,  all  that  humanity  can 
suffer  for  the  time ;  but  he  is  not  dismayed. 
Though  the  bolt  may  have  struck  him  to 
the  heart,  and  exhausted  nature  may  sink 
under  the  blow,  still  he  is  not  crushed ;  he 
is  not  forsaken.  A  light  breaks  in  from 
above,   and    dissipates    the    dark    clouds, 


I 


182  THE    IMPORTANCE    OF 

which,  in  the  moment  of  despair,  it  may  be, 
obscured  his  God  from  his  view ;  and  hope 
and  mercy  lend  their  soft  and  benignant 
influence  to  mitigate  the  anguish  of  his 
sorrows.  His  mind  rests  not  upon  the 
well-loved  form,  now  sealed  in  death ;  his 
heart  sinks  not  with  it  into  the  clay-cold 
grave.  With  the  eye  of  faith,  he  views  the 
kind  and  gentle  spirit  droppfng  its  earthly 
vestment,  and  winging  its  way  beyond  the 
stars,  to  join  ten  thousand  happy  spirits, 
who  bear  it  onward,  with  shouts  of  joy,  to 
the  abodes  of  perfect  rest  and  bliss. 

And  when  his  own  days  are  num- 
bered, he  meets  their  close  without  a  fear. 
He  has  so  often  accustomed  his  mind  to 
approach  the  brink  of  time  and  to  look  off", 
so  often  dwelt  upon  the  holy  scenes  beyond, 
that  he  hails  with  joy  the  approach  of 
death.  He  can  look  back  upon  a  life  well 
spent,  and  heavenly  gladness  swells  before 
his  enraptured  view,  as  he  yields  his  spirit 
to  the  God  who  gave  it. 


PERSONAL    RELIGION.  183 

Yes,  while  the  religious  man  enjoys, 
alike  with  the  worldly,  every  pleasure  that 
is  worth  the  attention  of  a  rational  and 
an  immortal  mind,  he  has  pleasures  the 
other  can  never  enjoy.  He  has  something 
better,  —  he  has  a  peace  of  mind  which  the 
world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away.  He 
has  in  his  own  bosom  a  perpetual  spring 
of  agreeable  sensations,  a  fountain  of  the 
sublimest  and  sweetest  pleasures,  which 
in  prosperity  will  be  his  joy,  and  in  adver- 
sity his  never-failing  solace  and  support. 
It  is  true,  he  may  have  difficulties  to  en- 
counter, and  sacrifices  to  make ;  but  the 
self-denial  thus  demanded  is  far  outweighed 
by  the  enjoyment  which  it  ensures.  He 
derives  from  it  an  unconditional  security 
in  every  event;  a  self-respect  which  will 
never  desert  him ;  and,  finally,  a  noble,  a 
genuine  dignity  of  character,  not  based 
upon  the  artificial  distinctions  of  man,  but 
the  result  of  a  hearty  contempt  for  every 


184  RELIGION    OF 

thing  sordid,  grovelling,  and  vicious,  and 
a  supreme  love  for  the  graces,  the  unosten- 
tatious qualities,  of  the  honest,  humble,  and 
charitable  Christian. 


RELIGION  OF  EVERY-DAY  IMPORTANCE. 
Read  htfore  the  South  Parish  Society  for  Mutual  Improvement. 

It  cannot  be  disputed,  that,  even  among 
those  whose  notions  upon  religion  are  in 
many  respects  speculatively  correct,  and 
who  would  not  be  considered  by  the  world 
otherwise  than  moral  and  religious  men, 
there  is  a  great  looseness  of  thinking  and 
acting  as  to  the  applicability  of  religion  to 
thO'Cvery-day,  hourly  occurrences  of  human 
life.  They  seem  to  act  as  if  they  thought 
its  precepts  and  obligations  more  con- 
cerned in  governing  the  great  occurrences 
of  life  than  the  small,  —  designed  rather  to 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE.  185 

regulate  the  broad  lines  of  character,  than 
to  descend  into  its  more  minute  details. 
In  scenes  of  darkness  and  of  sorrow,  they 
may  have  acknowledged  its  influence,  or,  if 
they  have  not  realized  it  themselves,  may 
have,  at  least,  witnessed  in  others  its  sus- 
taining and  consoling  power ;  they  may  be 
strict  in  their  observance  of  set  days  and 
forms,  and  scrupulously  exact  in  the  per- 
formance of  some  of  the  great  duties  of 
religion ;  but  further  than  this  they  do  not 
go.  They  see  and  acknowledge  God  in 
the  magnificence  of  his  works,  and  in  the 
stupendous  and  moving  events  of  his  Provi- 
dence ;  but  they  see  him  not  in  the  ordinary 
walks  of  life,  nor  acknowledge  the  right  of 
religion  to  control  and  direct  in  its  minute 
events.  "  God,"  they  say  (and  with  some- 
thing of  a  plea  of  reverence),  —  "  God  is  too 
great  and  too  high  to  notice  such  feeble 
and  insignificant  beings  as  we  are,  in  all 
our  weaknesses  and  follies  and  sins.     He 


186  RELIGION    OF 

governs  and  controls,  it  is  true ;  but  it  is 
upon  a  grand  and  extensive  scale.  To 
suppose  him  to .  bend  to  observe  every 
minute  event  as  it  passes,  to  notice  every 
little  circumstance  and  trifling  delinquen- 
cy of  character,  is  to  bring  him  too  low, 
and  to  derogate  too  much  from  the  efful- 
gence of  his  majesty  and  glory."  An  apo- 
logy like  this,  to  excuse  ourselves  from 
being  influenced  and  restrained  in  all,  even 
the  most  minute  occurrences  of  life,  I  need 
not  say,  is  founded  on  reasoning  as  unphi- 
losophical  as  it  is  unchristian,  and  replete 
with  danger  to  the  best  interests  and  hopes 
of  man. 

Oh,  no !  In  order  to  be  truly  religious, 
and  that  we  may  derive  thence  all  prof- 
fgl-ed  aid  and  consolation,  we  must  believe 
fully  and  unreservedly  that  God  is  with  us 
and  around  us  everywhere ;  that  he  sees 
and  knows  every  thing  we  do,  and  takes 
cognizance  of  every  act,  of  every  thought 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE. 


187 


and  passion,  however  we  ourselves  may 
deem  them  insignificant,  or  from  their  mi- 
nuteness unworthy  his  observation.  And 
that  he  does  thus  see  and  know,  we  cannot 
but  believe,  when  we  reflect  that,  without 
this  knowledge  of  minutiae,  he  is  essentially 
imperfect,  and  cannot  be  an  omniscient 
and  an  omnipotent  God.  The  same 
power  that  has  lighted  up  the  firmament 
with  so  much  splendor,  that  has  kindled 
the  ever-glowing  furnace  of  the  sun,  and 
decorated  the  evening  sky  with  so  many 
gerns  of  glory,  is  exhibited  in  all  its  ful- 
ness in  the  simplest  flower  that  blossoms 
in  the  field,  or  in  the  minutest  insect  that 
flutters  around  us ;  for  nothing  short  of  the 
infinite  Mind  could  have  created  and  sus- 
tained structures  so  curiously  and  wonder- 
fully wrought,  and  have  so  harmoniously 
arranged  and  adapted  them  to  the  various 
circumstances  of  their  being.  So,  in  the 
affairs  of  human  life,  if  God  is  present  at 


188 


RELIGION    OF 


all,  he  is  present  at  all  times  and  on  every 
occasion,  and  descends  to  examine  the 
minutest  event ;  nor  is  it  detracting  in  the 
least  from  his  greatness  and  glory,  —  for, 
unless  he  takes  cognizance  of  the  trivial 
as  well  as  the  great,  we  limit  his  attributes, 
we  weaken  his  omnipotence,  and  make 
him  comparatively  feeble  and  powerless 
like  ourselves.  As  true,  then,  as  there  is  a 
God,  so  true  is  it  that  we  can  never  be 
where  he  is  not,  nor  where  he  sees  and 
upholds  and  loves  us  not ;  so  true  is  it  that 
the  hairs  of  our  heads  are  all  numbered, 
and  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  with- 
out his  knowledge.  We  cannot,  there- 
fore, from  our  insignificance,  hope  to, hide 
ourselves  from  his  presence,  or  that  the 
srnallest  of  our  actions  can  ever  escape  the 
glance  of  his  all-searching  eye. 

But  the  importance  of  making  religion 
the  daily  concern  of  our  lives,  and  of  allow- 
ing it  to  control  each  and  every  event,  is 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE.  189 

still  further  apparent,  when  we  reflect  that 
our  characters  are  more  frequently  formed 
by  a  series  of  actions  and  habits,  than  by 
single  remarkable  events  ;  and  that,  in  this 
view,  what  may  appear  to  us  trifling  and 
unimportant  as  it  passes,  may  cast  a  light 
or  a  shadow  which  shall  gradually  aflect 
and  influence  the  whole  of  our  future  lives. 
Indeed,  we  can  hardly  say  at  the  time  how 
much  a  single  vicious  indulgence,  or  the 
smallest  dereliction  from  duty,  is  to  diffuse 
its  deadly  influence,  and  poison  the  moral 
sensibilities  of  the  soul ;  nor  may  its  dread- 
ful effects  upon  our  characters,  in  its  full 
extent,  ever  be  felt  till  that  hour  shall 
arrive,  which  will  expose  the  naked  deform- 
ity of  each,  when  we  shall  see  as  w^e  are 
seen,  and  know  as  we  are  known.  But 
enough  may  be  seen,  if  we  will  not  be 
blind,  to  warn  us  of  the  danger  of  casting 
off"  the  restraints  of  religion  upon  even  the 
smallest  occasions,  and  of  yielding  to  the 


190  RELIGION    OF 

most  trifling  sins.  Time,  as  it  passes,  is 
continually  developing  their  withering  in- 
fluence on  the  best  interests  of  man.  Ask 
the  abandoned  sinner  of  any  description, 
by  what  steps  he  has  arrived  at  his  present 
degradation  and  ruin ;  and  he  will  tell  you 
that  it  was  by  neglecting  the  wholesome 
restraints  of  religion  upon  the  small  events 
of  life.  Ask  the  drunkard,  for  instance, 
by  what  mighty  machinery  of  irresistible 
causes  he  has  been  reduced  to  his  present 
forlorn  and  abject  state,  his  home  the  abode 
of  squalid  poverty,  his  children  beggars, 
and  himself  the  loathsome  sepulchre  of  a 
guilty  but  immortal  soul ;  and  he  will 
point  you  to  some  moment  of  foolish 
hilarity,  when,  overstepping  the  bounds  of 
prudence  and  virtue,  he  put  the  intoxicat- 
ing cup  to  his  lip  again  and  again,  till  an 
appetite  was  created,  which  is  now  con- 
suming him  like  a  devouring  fire.  Visit 
your  haunts  of  vice  and  pollution,  or  go  still 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE. 


191 


farther  to  the  places  where  vice  pays  the 
forfeit  to  the  offended  laws  of  society,  your 
jails  and  your  gibbets,  and  inquire  by  what 
mighty  deeds  men  were  brought  to  these 
wretched  ends.  The  last  great  act  which 
brought  them  there  may  be  dreadful  in- 
deed; but  it  is  only  the  end  of  a  series 
which  commenced  in  some  small  sin, 
some  trifling  dereliction  from  duty,  —  so 
small,  indeed,  as  scarcely  to  have  been  per- 
ceptible at  first,  and  which  fastidiousness 
herself,  it  may  be,  would  have  been  un- 
willing to  have  numbered  on  the  list  of 
crimes ;  but  which,  growing  by  indulgence, 
has  so  insidiously  corrupted  the  springs 
of  virtue,  so  deadened  the  conscience,  as  to 
render  them  the  victims  of  every  species  of 
pollution.  Or,  in  more  favorable  instances, 
take  the  man  whose  life  shall  have  glided 
away  without  any  overt  guilt  to  debase  and 
disgrace  him,  but  who,  careless  and  heed- 
less of  religion,  has  given  himself  up  to  the 


192       ,  RELIGION    OF 

common  seductions  of  the  world ;  who  has 
rioted   in   its   pleasures   and  amusements, 
without  -a  thought   of   the    future ;  —  go 
to  him  when  the   agonies  of  disease  are 
racking  his  frame,  and  the  damps  of  death 
are  upon  him,  and  inquire  why  all  before 
him    is    nought    but   terror   and   dismay ; 
and  he  will  point  you  to  some  small  temp- 
tation, which,  unresisted  in  the  commence- 
ment of  life,  gradually  sapped  the  founda- 
tions of  religion,  and  eradicated  from  his 
bosom  every  principle  of  virtue  and  piety ; 
—  or,  if  his  moral  sense  be  blunted,  and, 
dead  in  trespasses  and  sins,  he  shall  have 
become    insensible    to    his    wretchedness ; 
when  he  shall  at  last  wake  up  in  eternity, 
and  his  conscience  shall  sting  like  an  adder, 
and  memory  now  lighted  up  shall  wander 
over  the  long-forgotten  past,  and  be  able  to 
call  up  each  act  and  incident  of  life,  giving 
to  each  its  true  weight  in  perverting  his 
character  and  weakening  his  sensibility  to 


I 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE.  .    193 

virtuous  impressions;  —  from  what  small 
beginnings  may  he  not  be  able  to  trace  the 
causes  which  have  now  sunk  him  so  deep 
in  misery  and  guilt!  what  good  resolution, 
may  it  not  be,  that  was  broken  as  soon  as 
it  was  formed,  what  parental  restraint  dis- 
regarded, what  sabbath  neglected,  what 
passion  indulged  !  Small  they  apparently 
were,  it  is  true,  and  easily  might  they  have 
been  guarded  against  ere  habit  had  ren- 
dered him  their  slave ;  but  now,  like  spec- 
tres, they  haunt  him  as  the  sources  from 
whence  sprang  all  his  woes.  Nor  need  we 
imagine  cases  for  illustration :  we  can  ap- 
peal to  our  own  bosoms  for  the  truth  of  the 
position  we  have  taken.  With  what  almost 
instinctive  horror  may  we  not  have  first  lis- 
tened to  some  one  seducing  form  of  sin! 
and  yet  if  unrestrained,  —  if  we  yielded,  — 
our  memories  will  tell  us  how  soon  our  sen- 
sibility to  its  heinousness  was  impaired 
merely  by  a  repetition  of  the  offence,  and 

13 


194  RELIGION    OF 

from  what  small  beginnings  we  can  trace 
the  vices  which  may  once  have  bound  us  in 
chains  of  adamant.  "Who,  then,  that  reflects 
upon  the  temptations  of  life  to  which  he  is 
hourly  exposed,  —  who  that  looks  abroad 
upon  the  world,  and  observes  the  various 
snares  that  surround  him, — the  artful  soli- 
citations, the  corrupt  examples  and  habits, 
that  assail  him,  can  say  that  he  needs  the 
power  of  religion  in  life,  only  to  guard  and 
protect  him  against  its  greatest  temptations, 
and  under  its  most  afflictive  events  ?  Above 
all,  who  that  looks  into  his  own  heart, 
and  marks  its  fond  attachments,  its  earthly 
passions,  and  treacherous  purposes,  and 
how  prone  he  is  to  yield  and  to  hurry  from 
one  excess  to  another,  till  virtue  is  dead 
and  shame  is  gone,  but  must  feel  the  con- 
stant and  hourly  need  of  the  counsels  of 
religion  to  assist  him  in  restraining  the 
very  beginnings  of  evil  ? 

But  it  is  not  merely  to  restrain  us  from 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE.  195 

vice  that  we  require  the  constant  aid  of 
religion :  we  need  also  her  kindly  influences 
in  making  us  positively  good.  Character 
is  rarely,  if  ever,  suddenly  formed :  there  is 
no  such  violence  done  to  our  natures.  It 
grows  with  our  growth,  and  strengthens 
with  our  strength.  And  it  is  only  by  con- 
sulting the  great  principles  of  religion,  and 
daily  and  hourly  applying  them  to  all  the 
minutiae  of  conduct;  by  cherishing  every 
good  propensity,  every  devout  purpose  and 
holy  desire ;  by  improving  the  small  oppor- 
tunities we  may  possess,  as  well  as  the 
great,  for  the  cultivation  of  the  benevolent 
affections,  for  laying  deep  in  our  hearts  the 
principles  of  love,  of  mercy,  of  charity,  of 
obedience,  and  of  piety,  that  we  can  ever 
hope  to  arrive  at  the  stature  of  perfect  men 
in  Christ  Jesus. 

Again,  as  has  been  before  suggested,  we 
are  too  apt  to  think  that  religion  is  prin- 
cipally applicable  to  the  great  events  of 


196  RELIGION    OF 

life,  —  that  we  need  her  influences  chiefly 
in  resisting  the  greatest  temptations,  or  in 
bearing  the  severest  trials ;  and  here  once 
more  we  must  feel  the  necessity  of  first 
courting  her  smiles,  and  imploring  her  aid 
in  those  which  we  consider  of  smaller  im- 
portance. When  the  tempest  is  lowering, 
and  the  angry  elements  are  raging  around 
us,  how  can  we  breast  the  shock,  how  can 
we  hope  to  be  sustained,  if  we  have  not 
previously  armed  ourselves  for  the  conflict  ? 
When  our  possessions  are  suddenly  wrested 
from  us,  and  we  are  cast  upon  the  charity 
of  a  cold  and  heartless  world,  how  can  we 
ask  for  mercy,  if  our  hearts  have  never 
melted  at  the  tale  of  another's  woe ;  or  look 
to  Heaven  for  comfort  and  support  under 
the  dreadful  reverse,  if,  instead  of  laying 
up  for  ourselves  treasures  in  heaven,  by 
considering  ourselves  but  the  stewards  of 
God's  bounty,  by  feeding  the  hungry  and 
clothing  the  naked,  and  preparing  our  minds 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE.  197 

for  such  vicissitudes  of  Providence,  we  have 
been  all  our  lives  long  cruel  and  selfish, 
driving  hard  bargains,  grinding  the  faces 
of  the  poor,  and  hoarding  and  hugging  our 
possessions  with  the  grasp  of  a  miser? 
And  with  what  meekness  and  forbearance 
can  we  endure  to  have  our  characters  as- 
sailed by  the  tongue  of  calumny  and  slander, 
if  we  have  not  been  able  to  meet  with  equa- 
nimity even  the  petty  trials  and  vexations 
of  life  ?  Or,  still  more,  when  death  enters 
our  dwellings,  and  takes  from  us  the  best 
loved  of  our  bosoms ;  or  when,  in  an  hour 
we  think  not  of,  we  shall  be  summoned 
ourselves  to  give  an  account,  —  how  shall 
we  endure  the  calamity,  unless  in  the  minor 
changes  of  life  we  have  accustomed  our- 
selves to  meet  with  a  religious  submission 
all  the  allotments  of  Providence  ?  These, 
it  will  be  acknowledged,  are  some  of  the 
severest  trials  of  life,  —  trials  which  would 
break  down  the  stoutest  heart,  and  cause 


198  RELIGION    OF 

the  strongest  to  fall  by  the  way,  unless  the 
occurrences  of  each  day  —  each  hour  as  it 
passes  —  are  made  to  subserve  the  purpose 
of  fortifying,  of  elevating  the  mind,  and 
inspiring  it  with  the  hope  and  the  resig- 
nation of  a  Christian.  We  see,  then,  the 
importance  of  mingling,  with  all  our  pur- 
suits, the  ennobling  principles  of  virtue  and 
holiness ;  and  the  benevolent  purpose  of 
Christianity  in  requiring  of  us  a  piety 
which  is  not  of  set  times  and  forms  and 
particular  contingencies  only,  but  a  habit 
of  thought  and  of  life,  —  an  ever-enduring, 
lofty  principle  of  action. 

But  it  is  said,  that  it  is  impossible  for  us 
thus  to  make  religion  the  constant  subject 
of  our  thoughts :  the  cares,  the  amuse- 
nitnts,  and  the  business  of  the  world  will 
intrude,  and  must  engross  a  necessary  share 
of  our  attention.  It  is  so,  and  it  should  be 
so ;  and  we  know  not  that  religion  requires 
of  us  to  renounce  any  thing  of  the  world 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE.  199 

but  its  sins.  But  it  is  a  religious  habit 
that  we  should  cultivate,  and  so  firmly  and 
deeply  engrave  its  principles  upon  our 
hearts  that  they  can  never  be  effaced.  It 
should  never  be  to  us  of  that  extraneous 
character  which  can  be  thrown  on  and  off 
like  a  garment,  as  we  in  our  weakness 
may  deem  most  befitting  the  occasion,  or 
demanded  by  the  exigency  of  the  case.  It 
should  be  deemed  the  aliment  of  the  soul, 
and  should  be  as  eagerly  sought  after  as  the 
food  which  is  to  sustain  our  animal  natures ; 
so  assimilated  and  incorporated  into  our 
minds  as  to  become  an  essential  ingredient 
in  our  characters,  and  to  render  us  truly 
religious  when  we  are  least  thinking  of  it, 
and  when,  from  the  cares  and  collisions 
of  the  world,  we  may  be  entirely  off  our 
guard. 

The  man  who  would  attain  to  this  per- 
fection of  the  character  of  a  Christian,  with 
a  firm  reliance  on  God  to  assist  him  in  his 


200  RELIGION    OF 

weakness,  gathers  up  all  his  strength  for 
the  work,  and  devotes  all  his  time  to  its 
accomplishment ;  he  suffers  no  opportunity 
for  usefulness,  however  small  it  may  be, 
to  pass  by  him  unnoticed  and  unimproved; 
each  succeeding  day,  as  it  passes,  has  done 
something  for  his  character,  as  he  has  made 
it  more  free  from  evil  and  more  full  of 
good ;  every  joy  is  a  new  call  for  his  grati- 
tude, and  every  sorrow  is  made  a  new  les- 
son of  submission  and  of  obedience.  He 
devotes  the  unremitted  exertion  of  all  his 
faculties  to  the  cause  of  virtue  and  of  piety ; 
careless  of  all  sufferings  and  heedless  of  all 
privations,  through  good  report  and  through 
evil  report,  he  follows  only  the  convictions 
of  conscience  and  of  duty.  He  fights  the 
good  fight  of  faith,  and  subjects  the  senses 
to  the  soul,  by  bringing  into  subjection  all 
the  evil  propensities  of  his  nature,  and  by 
subduing  all  its  rebellious  desires.  In  his 
motives  and  pursuits,  he  is  so  different  from 


EVERY-DAY    IMPORTANCE. 


201 


the  man  of  the  world  as  hardly  to  pos- 
sess with  him  a  nature  in  common;  for, 
while,  with  low  and  grovelling  purposes, 
the  one  is  toiling  for  possessions  earthly  in 
their  nature,  and  uncertain  in  their  tenure, 
he  sets  his  affections  on  objects  which  do 
not  perish  in  using,  which  time  cannot  cor- 
rupt nor  accident  destroy. 

Thus  to  make  religion  the  object  of  our 
daily  and  hourly  care,  or,  as  has  been  more 
strongly  and  happily  expressed,  to  make  it 
the  "  life  of  God  in  the  soul,"  is  doubtless 
an  arduous,  a  difficult  task ;  and  he  who 
would  effect  it  must,  above  all,  be  ever  on 
the  watch  against  the  corrupting  influence 
of  those  foes  to  his  peace,  which,  under  the 
guise  of  petty  indulgences  and  trifling  sins, 
are  continually  besetting  his  path,  and,  by 
slow  and  gradual  approaches,  would  insi- 
diously undermine  what,  in  the  weakness  of 
pride  and  self-confidence,  he  may  consider 
the  strongholds  of  his  virtue ;  remembering 


202 


MILITARY    FAME. 


the  importance  of  filling  up  the  measure  of 
life  with  its  appropriate  duties,  and  that  it 
is  only  by  patient  continuance  in  well- 
doing that  he  can  hope  to  attain  to  glory, 
honor,  and  immortality. 


IS  THE  ECLAT  OF  MILITARY  FAME  FOUNDED 
EITHER  ON  SOUND  REASON  OR  ON  MORAL 
PRINCIPLE  1 

Read  before  the  South  Parish  Society  for  Mutual  Improvement. 

There  is  to  me  something  superlatively 
ridiculous  in  the  honor  and  deference  paid 
to  the  man  whose  reputation  depends  on 
military  achievement  alone.  Scarcely  have 
the -shouts  of  victory  died  on  our  ears,  than, 
regardless  of  moral  distinctions,  we  hasten 
to  enrol  the  name  of  its  hero  on  the  temple 
of  fame,  to  erect  a  stupendous  mausoleum, 
or  to  gild  his  tomb  with  an  inflated  descrip- 


MILITARY    FAME. 


203 


tion  of  brilliant  exploits.  No  pageantries 
are  too  grand  and  extravagant  to  celebrate 
his  success;  no  homage  is  too  servile  to 
facilitate  his  ascent  to  the  pinnacle  of  glory. 
The  marble  and  the  canvas  are  to  rescue 
from  oblivion  the  features  of  One  who  has 
convulsed  the  world;  while  his  deeds  of 
cruelty  and  of  blood  are  to  live  for  ever  in 
the  varnished  records  of  song  and  of  story. 
Another  and  another  is  added  to  swell  the 
list,  and  each,  it  may  be,  surpassing  the  last 
in  crime  and  enormity,  till,  amidst  the  infa- 
tuation of  military  splendor  and  achieve- 
ment, the  distinction  between  morality  and 
wickedness,  between  virtue  and  vice,  is 
completely  destroyed. 

And  who  amongst  us  has  not  felt,  almost 
to  madness,  the  glow  of  military  enthu- 
siasm? Whose  heart  has  not  been  even 
dead  to  every  moral  distinction,  in  view  of 
the  chivalric  exploits  of  a  hero  ?  "We  hear 
of  his  noble  deeds  of  daring,  his  "  hair- 


204 


MILITARY    FAME. 


breadth  escapes,"  and  we  reverence  him. 
We  behold  the  wreath  of  triumph  which 
entwines  his  brow,  and  the  pomp  and  pa- 
rade which  attend  his  approach,  and  are 
lost  in  wonder  and  astonishment.  We 
stand  indeed  upon  enchanted  ground,  where 
every  thing  appears  grand  and  beautiful ; 
forgetful,  that,  in  preparing  laurels  for  him, 
it  may  be  we  are  forging  chains  for  our- 
selves. Nor  is  he  insensible  to  the  supe- 
riority he  receives  from  our  sycophantic 
adulations,  or  remiss  in  employing  the 
ascendancy  he  has  gained  to  his  further 
advancement.  He  would  indeed  now  be- 
come "  a  God,  and  bestride  this  narrow 
world  like  a  colossus,  while  we  petty  men 
must  peep  about  to  find  ourselves  dishonor- 
able'graves." 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  our  earliest  and 
general  impressions  are  in  favor  of  military 
fame:  so  were  men's  once  of  religious  into- 
lerance and  persecution ;  and  so  are  they 


MILITARY    FAME.  205 

now  of  many  of  the  fashionable  follies  and 
vices  which  neither  reason  nor  religion  can 
justify.  But  these  impressions  are  derived 
from  the  corruption  and  vices  we  have 
imbibed  from  the  world,  and  not  from  the 
moral  sense  implanted  within  us.  No 
argument  can  be  deduced  from  these. 
General  impression  is  not  the  tribunal 
before  which  the  morality  either  of  actions 
or  of  character  can  be  tried.  It  is  as  often 
founded  upon  principles  which  are  erro- 
neous as  upon  those  which  are  correct; 
as  often  the  advocate  of  the  vices  as  of  the 
virtues  of  society.  Correct  the  general 
impressions  of  the  world  upon  the  great 
principles  of  action,  and  the  greatest  sources 
of  error  and  iniquity  will  be  for  ever  re- 
moved. I  do  not,  however,  by  these  asser- 
tions, intend  to  impeach  the  justice  of 
public  opinion  upon  many  of  the  great 
points  of  morality,  or  to  detract  from  the 
influence  it  should  ever  possess  in  these 


206  MILITARY    FAME. 

particulars  over  our  lives  and  actions.  But 
I  do  assert  its  fallibility,  and  could  demon- 
strate, if  necessary,  by  a  thousand  examples, 
that  it  is  often  formed  upon  views  which  are 
superficial,  and  is  not  unfrequently  enlisted 
in  favor  of  what  is  brilliant  and  captivating, 
rather  than  of  what  is  intrinsically  noble 
and  virtuous.  And  such  I  believe  to  be  the 
character  of  the  impressions  we  have  re- 
ceived of  military  fame.  In  discussing 
this  question,  I  shall,  in  the  first  place, 
endeavor  to  demonstrate  that  the  eclat 
bestowed  upon  military  achievement  is 
unreasonable  and  extravagant;  and,  in  the 
next,  that  it  is  not  founded  upon  sound 
principles  of  morality. 

What,  then,  are  those  brilliant  traits  of 
character  we  admire  so  much  in  a  hero, 
and  to  which  we  bow  with  so  much  admi- 
ration and  respect  ?  Are  they  not  simply 
his  courage,  his  intrepidity,  his  imagined 
superiority  of  talent,  his   patriotism,  and 


MILITARY    FAME.  207 

the  fancied  benefits  which  are  to  result  to 
society  from  their  exercise  ? 

We  admire  his  courage  and  intrepidity. 
But  courage,  to  use  the  words  of  a  very 
great  man, "  is  an  early  dictate  of  instinct." 
It  is  a  something,  which,  like  the  grosser 
appetites  and  passions,  we  possess  in  com- 
mon with  the  brute  creation.  The  nearer 
we  approach  them,  as  may  be  seen  in 
savage  life,  the  more  distinct  are  its  marks, 
and  the  more  ferocious  its  character. 
There  is  nothing  intellectual  in  its  nature, 
nor  is  it  susceptible,  like  mind,  of  cultiva- 
tion and  improvement.  It  depends,  in  fact, 
entirely  upon  our  physical  organization, 
and  is  as  much  the  property  of  the  fool 
and  the  rogue  as  of  the  great  and  the  good. 
Besides,  if  courage  is  noble,  it  is  more  fre- 
quently displayed,  though  indeed  with  less 
brilliancy  of  effect,  and,  as  we  hope,  with 
less  criminality  of  design,  in  the  every-day 
occurrences  of  life,  than  in  the  camp  or  the 


208  MILITARY    FAME. 

field.  The  physician,  for  example,  who 
believes  in  the  contagiousness  of  disease, 
or  the  mariner  who  devotes  his  days  to  the 
perils  of  the  sea,  has  greater  demands  for 
its  exercise,  than  he  who  risks  his  life  two 
or  three  times  in  a  battle,  where,  according 
to  common  results,  the  chances  of  escape 
are  twenty  or  thirty  to  one  in  his  favor.  In 
truth,  courage  is  so  universal,  so  engrafted 
in  our  constitutions,  that  the  man  who  is 
destitute  of  it  at  once  arrests  our  attention, 
and  is  almost  regarded  as  an  anomaly  in 
nature. 

I  am  yet  to  learn,  too,  that  there  is  any 
superior  skill  or  talent  to  be  exercised  in 
the  management  of  a  campaign.  That 
profession  or  science  cannot  be  said  to  be 
a  difficult  one,  or  deserving  of  our  applause 
and  esteem,  which  can  be  almost  as  suc- 
cessfully prosecuted  without  an  education 
as  with  one;  and  such  seems  to  be  the 
case  with  the  military  profession.    It  is  true 


MILITARY    FAME.  209 

there  have  been  for  a  long  time  academies 
founded  in  Europe,  and  more  recently  in 
our  own  country,  for  instruction  in  this  par- 
ticular art.  But  we  certainly  see  that  the 
greatest  victories  have  been  won  by  those 
who  have  had  little  or  no  experience  in 
military  tactics,  and  that  the  greatest  revo- 
lutions have  been  carried  into  effect  by 
those  who  were  the  least  acquainted  with 
the  science  of  war.  Our  own  revolution 
was  conducted  to  the  happiest  results  by 
men  (with  the  exception  of  a  few  foreign- 
ers) who  were  but  mere  novices  in  the  art ; 
and  it  surely  was  not  from  military  educa- 
tion that  our  last  struggle  was  crowned 
with  success.  The  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill, 
and  the  capture  of  Burgoyne  and  of  Corn- 
wallis,  in  the  first,  the  defence  of  New  Or- 
leans, and  the  battles  of  Bridgewater  and 
of  Erie,  in  the  last  war,  achieved,  too, 
over  men  of  acknowledged  talents  in  the 
Old  World,  even  men  who  had  helped  to 

14 


210  MILITARY    FAME. 

deluge  the  continent  of  Europe  with  blood, 
and  who  had  been  raised  to  the  very  sum- 
mit of  military  glory,  will  for  ever  remain 
as  signal  examples  of  the  truth  of  the  posi- 
tion I  have  taken,  that  military  success 
does  not  generally  depend  upon  the  exer- 
tion of  superior  talents  and  acquirements. 
If  it  be  said  that  genius  alone  produced 
these  mighty  effects,  then  can  genius  per- 
form in  the  military  profession  what  it  can- 
not accomplish  in  others. 

Again,  we  admire  the  soldier's  patriotism, 
and  his  devotedness  to  his  country's  good ; 
and,  were  it  true  that  he  has  no  selfish  pur- 
poses to  gratify,  no  petty  ends  to  accom- 
plish, well  might  we  applaud  his  disinterest- 
edness, and  award  to  him  the  glory  he  so 
much  desires.  The  sacred  name  of  patriot- 
ism, alas !  is  as  broad  as  the  mantle  of 
charity,  and,  like  that  tooj  is  made  to  cover 
a  multitude  of  sins.  True  love  of  one's 
country,  I  contend,  consists  as  much  in  a  de- 


MILITARY    FAME.  211 

sire  to  effect  her  deliverance  from  the  thral- 
dom of  vice  and  iniquity,  as  from  the  foot 
of  an  invader  or  the  chains  of  a  despot. 
And  where  shall  we  see  it  in  its  native 
purity,  its  virgin  brightness,  unadulterated 
by  crime,  and  unpolluted  by  cupidity  and 
ambition  ?  Shall  we  find  it  in  the  hero  of 
France,  whose  boast  it  was  to  have  inscribed 
his  name  on  the  pillar  of  Pompey  ?  —  or  in 
his  humble  successor,  the  magnanimous  de- 
fender of  the  Bastile  and  the  Inquisition  ?  — 
in  the  conqueror  at  Waterloo,  second  only 
to  his  great  master  in  the  support  of  crime 
and  debauchery  ?  —  in  the  gentle  and  paci- 
fic Alexander,  with  his  cunning  devices  to 
grasp  the  world  ?  —  in  the  patriotic  Iturbide 
of  the  South,  with  his  splendid  courts  and 
voluptuous  pageantry  ?  —  or,  to  come 
nearer  home,  in  the  illustrious  conqueror 
and  relentless  executioner  of  the  harmless 
Typees  of  the  Pacific?  No:  patriotism, 
in  its  native  purity,  will,  I  believe,  be  found 


212  MILITARY    FAME. 

more  frequently  to  exist  in  the  shade  and 
retirement  of  peaceful  life,  than  in  the 
bustle  of  the  camp  or  the  field.  Its  flame 
will  be  found  to  burn  the  most  brightly, 
and  its  incense  to  ascend  the  most  purely, 
from  the  bosom  of  him,  who,  armed  with 
the  breastplate  of  righteousness,  the  sword 
of  the  Spirit,  and  the  helmet  of  salvation, 
stands  the  faithful  sentinel  to  his  country's 
morals;  who  assails,  in  their  strongest 
holds,  its  besetting  sins,  and  subdues,  one 
after  another,  its  vicious  propensities  and 
habits,  till  the  victory  is  achieved  over  the 
foes  to  religion  and  virtue. 

But  war  is  a  trade,  a  profession,  in  which 
men  engage  from"  the  same  motives  as  they 
do  in  the  common  concerns  of  life,  —  some 
from  avarice,  ambition,  and  the  love  of  dis- 
tinction ;  a  few,  it  may  be,  from  benevolent 
designs,  and  with  a  view  to  promote  the 
public  good ;  but  by  far  the  greatest  pro- 
portion from  the  facilities  it  offers  for  a  life 


MILITARY    FAME.  213 

of  luxury  and  ease.  If  we  consult  the  his- 
tory of  the  armies  of  the  world,  we  shall 
find  that  patriotism  exists  but  in  name, 
even  among  the  greatest  of  their  heroes, 
and  is  only  preserved  as  a  shield  to  their 
enormities  and  crimes.  "We  shall  find 
armies  composed  of  desperadoes,  anxious  to 
retrieve  a  broken  fortune  or  a  broken  name ; 
of  outcasts  from  society,  who  have  no  other 
resource,  and  no  other  resort  for  the  indul- 
gence of  their  vicious  propensities ;  of  men 
receiving  the  honors  and  distinctions  of 
martyrs  to  their  country's  good,  who  would, 
in  other  times  and  in  other  situations,  have 
perished  in  a  dungeon  or  have  disgraced  a 
gibbet. 

As  to  the  good  that  has  ever  accrued 
to  the  world  from  the  exhibition  of  mili- 
tary prowess  and  skill,  I  must  reserve  it  for 
another  part  of  the  subject ;  premising,  how- 
ever, that  even  were  it  true  that  some  par- 
tial benefits  have  been  thus  obtained,  they 


214  MILITARY    FAME. 

have  been  acquired  in  the  exercise  of  a  pro- 
fession which  has  no  claims  to  superiority 
of  courage,  talent,  or  patriotism,  and  con- 
sequently is  not  entitled  to  that  extrava- 
gance of  praise  which  is  so  often  bestowed 
on  it. 

In  regard  to  the  morality  of  military 
fame,  I  must  be  more  brief  than  I  could 
wish,  for  reasons  that  have  already  been 
stated.  It  evidently  involves  the  great 
question  as  to  the  justice  of  war ;  and,  with 
our  decisions  on  that  subject,  the  moral 
character  of  heroes  must  stand  or  fall.  And 
my  first  remark  is  that  war  is  unjustifiable, 
because  it  is  in  direct  violation  of  one  of 
the  great  commandments  of  the  Almighty : 
"  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder,"  —  a  law  which 
is  sacred,  imperative,  and  unconditional,  — 
a  law  which  enforces  itself  equally  upon 
the  obedience  of  nations  as  of  individuals, 
—  a  law,  which,  however  it  may  be  sub- 
verted or  refined  away  by  the  decrees  of  the 


MILITARY    FAME. 


215 


different  potentates  of  the  earth,  is  acknow- 
ledged and  sanctioned  in  all  the  relations 
of  civil  life.  If  a  man  kills  his  neighbor, 
he  is  denounced  as  a  murderer,  an  outcast, 
and  is  consigned  to  the  most  ignominious 
death  to  atone  for  his  transgressions.  But 
a  military  butcher  may  not  only  slaughter 
his  thousands  with  impunity,  but  be  re- 
warded with  the  acclamation  and  ap- 
plause of  an  admiring  world.  And  the 
apology  for  the  morality  of  his  actions  is, 
that  he  is  but  the  executioner  of  the  decrees 
of  a  government  to  which  he  has,  tacitly  at 
least,  sworn  allegiance  and  obedience.  But 
from  whom,  the  question  may  be  asked, 
did  his  government  derive  the  power  to 
annul  the  decrees  of  the  Almighty?  and 
by  what  right  do  they  pretend  to  delegate 
a  power  which  they  have  never  righteously 
received  ?  We  are  bound  to  the  mandates 
of  our  superiors,  only  as  they  are  in  accord- 
ance with  the  eternal  rules  of  morality  laid 


216  MILITARY    FAME. 

down  for  the  government  of  our  lives  and 
actions.  Any  fame,  therefore,  acquired  in 
opposition  to  these  cannot  be  founded  on 
sound  moral  principle. 

It  is  said,  that,  however  this  argument 
may  hold  good  as  to  an  aggressive  war, 
those  which  are  defensive  cannot  be  deemed 
immoral.  And  a  strictly  defensive  war 
perhaps  may  not  be  so.  But  is  not  this  a 
title  claimed  by  almost  every  contending 
foe  ?  The  w^ar  is  said  to  be  essential  to 
redress  some  petty  wrong,  or  breach  of  eti- 
quette ;  or,  it  may  be,  to  resent  an  outrage, 
and  to  preserve  the  balance  of  power  among 
the  nations  of  the  earth.  In  redressing 
wrongs,  however,  it  is  a  sound  maxim  of 
morals,  that  no  circumstances  will  justify 
the  infliction  of  injuries  upon  the  innocent. 
When,  therefore,  we  remember  the  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  innocent  people 
that  are  sacrificed  to  aid  these  designs,  — 
when  we  recollect  the.  miseries  and  cor- 


MILITARY    FAME.  217 

ruptions,  the  desolation  and  blood,  which 
follow  in  their  train,  we  shall  be  slow  to 
believe  that  the  fame  which  arises  from 
military  achievement  can  be  founded  on 
sound  moral  principle. 

There  can  be  nothing  indeed  so  injurious 
to  a  community  as  the  admiration  bestowed 
upon  a  hero.  It  endangers  the  peace  of 
the  country,  by  fostering  a  military  spirit, 
by  stimulating  reckless  ambition,  and  excit- 
ing in  the  young  and  the  giddy  a  thirst  for 
martial  glory. 

If  to  all  this  I  am  assailed  with  the  name 
of  Washington,  I  answer,  that  I  am  not 
willing  to  sacrifice  him  for  the  sake  of  an 
argument.  No:  his  humanity,  his  disin- 
terested patriotism,  and  his  brilliant  virtues, 
are  sufficient  to  redeem  the  military  cha- 
racter as  such  from  indiscriminate  oppro- 
brium. No:  in  the  words  of  another, 
"  He  has  ascended  to  heaven,  not  like 
Mahomet,  for  he  needed  not  the   fiction 


218 


THE    IMMORTALITY 


of  a  miracle;  not  like  Elijah,  for  record- 
ing time  has  not  registered  the  man  on 
whom  his  mantle  should  descend ;  but 
in  humble  imitation  of  the  omnipotent 
Architect,  who  returned  from  a  created  uni- 
verse to  contemplate  from  his  throne  the 
stupendous  fabric  he  had  erected." 


THE    IMMORTALITY   OP    THE    MIND. 

Read  before  the  South  Parish  Society  for  Mutual  Improvement  in  1830, 
and  subsequently  delivered  as  a  Lyceum  Lecture. 

"  If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again  ?  "  We 
know  that  this  most  important  of  all  ques- 
tions is  answered  affirmatively  and  dis- 
tinctly on  every  page  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment. But,  while  the  sacred  and  exalted 
truths  of  Christianity  may  be  acknowledged 
and  rejoiced  in  by  us,  we  must  remember 
that  they  do  not  reach  every  man's  bosom 


OF    THE    MIND.  219 

alike.  There  are  some  who  deny  them,  — 
some  who  openly  avow  their  disbelief  and 
rejection  of  the  evidences  of  a  revelation 
made  to  man ;  while  there  are  others  who 
say,  that  these  evidences  are  involved  in  so 
much  obscurity  that  they  hardly  know 
whether  to  believe  them  or  not.  In  the 
intercourse  of  life,  it  may  be  our  lot  to  fall 
in  with  such  persons;  perhaps  they  may 
be  among  our  relatives,  our  friends,  or  our 
neighbors,  —  persons  over  whose  minds  it 
is  possible  for  a  happy  influence  to  be  ex- 
erted. The  condition  of  such  minds  is 
truly  lamentable ;  and,  if  honest  and  can- 
did, deeply  to  be  pitied.  But  what  is  to  be 
done  ?  How  shall  they  be  reached  ?  By 
repeating  over  and  over  again  the  argu- 
ments in  favor  of  Christianity,  which  we 
will  suppose  them  to  have  heard  from  their 
earliest  days,  and  to  which  they  may  have 
listened  with  tolerably  open  and  inquiring 
minds  ?     We  think  not.     Such  a  course,  it 


220  THE    IMMORTALITY 

is  possible,  might  meet  the  wants  of  the 
wavering,  the  timid,  and  the  doubtful,  but 
rarely,  we  think,  the  case  of  the  man  whose 
scepticism  is  confirmed  and  daring;  for  we 
do  not  believe  that  this  is  the  root  of  the 
evil :  we  believe  that  it  extends  still  deeper, 
and  embraces  the  very  first  principles 
of  religion.  We  doubt,  indeed,  whether 
jthere  be  any,  unless  they  are  educated  as 
Jews,  living  under  the  light  of  the  Chris- 
tian dispensation,  who  reject  this  revelation 
alone ;  we  believe,  that,  in  most  instances, 
what  is  called  Deism  is,  in  truth,  dark  and 
chilling  Atheism.  Accordingly,  we  hear 
such  men  suggesting  doubts  and  difficul- 
ties ;  speculating  on  the  eternity  of  matter, 
on  organization  and  mind,  their  insepa- 
rable* connection,  and  the  like ;  or  break- 
ing out  into  express  and  open  infidelity. 
So  true  is  it,  we  fear,  that "  he  that  denieth 
the  Son  denieth  the  Father  also."  We 
must  then  go  back  to  the   evidences  of 


OF    THE    MIND.  221 

natural  religion,  before  we  can  hope  to  pro- 
duce a  conviction  of  that  which  is  revealed. 
The  existence  of  a  God,  all-powerful,  wise, 
and  good,  should  be  the  first  great  lesson 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  mind  ;  the  natural 
evidences  of  which  it  would  seem  could 
hardly  fail  of  ensuring  belief,  if  faithfully 
drawn  and  enforced,  and  candidly  and 
kindly  received.  The  next  should  be  the 
doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul, 
or  the  answer  to  the  question  proposed 
for  discussion,  "  If  a  man  die,  shall  he 
live  again?"  as  derived  from  the  same 
evidences,  and  unconnected  with  what  is 
taught  in  the  Christian  dispensation.  We 
well  know  that  we  cannot  hope  to  make 
out  an  argument  upon  this  momentous 
subject,  which  shall  be  perfectly  demonstra- 
tive, without  the  aid  of  Christianity;  but 
we  do  think,  that,  with  a  previous  belief  in 
the  existence  of  a  God,  we  shall  render  it 
so  highly  probable,  that  the  mind  may  be 


222  THE    IMMORTALITY 

opened  to  receive  with  joy  the  light  which 
Christianity  throws  upon  it.  And,  how- 
ever well  grounded  we  may  be  in  our  faith, 
may  not  this  view  of  the  subject  be  useful 
and  interesting  to  us  all?  In  seasons  of 
suffering  and  of  trial,  when  the  heart  is 
sick  and  the  mind  is  distressed,  is  it  not 
well  to  have  the  collateral  evidence  which 
the  light  of  nature  affords,  so  that  the  mind, 
in  its  wanderings,  if  need  be,  may  fall  back 
upon  itself  (if  I  may  so  speak),  and  find  in 
its  own  nature,  and  in  its  connection  with 
God,  the  evidence  of  its  future  exist- 
ence? 

The  subject  is  one  abounding  in  me- 
taphysical speculations  and  difficulties. 
Aware  of  this,  I  have,  with  such  labor  as  I 
could  bestow,  drawn  my  arguments  from  a 
great  variety  of  sources;  and  must  refer 
those  who  would  extend  their  researches 
into  this  momentous  subject  to  the  works 
of  Priestley,  Berkeley,  Reid,  Bishop  Butler, 


OF    THE    MIND.  223 

Paley,  Locke,  Stewart,  and  Brown,  to  all  of 
whom  I  acknowledge  myself  indebted  for 
portions  of  my  argument.  With  this 
avowal  of  my  indebtedness  to  the  labor  of 
others,  I  must  bespeak  your  patience  and 
undivided  attention,  while  I  offer  you  the 
results  of  my  reflection  and  study. 

To  an  unreflecting  mind,  death,  at  the 
first  view,  does  seem  to  be  the  end  of  all 
things.  We  are  overwhelmed  with  the 
change  and  desolation  it  produces.  We 
see  the  body  fallen,  and  mingling  with  the 
common  dust;  the  eye  that  delighted  us 
has  lost  its  lustre;  the  lips,  whence  pro- 
ceeded the  accents  of  love  and  kindness,  are 
now  hushed  and  silenced  for  ever ;  and  the 
mind,  too,  which  was  our  light  and  our  joy, 
seems  to  have  participated  in  the  common 
calamity,  and  to  have  sunk  with  the  body 
into  the  cold  and  silent  grave.  This  is  the 
first,  and  it  is  most  certainly  a  natural 
impression.     But  if  we  look  back  upon  the 


224  THE    IMMORTALITY 

changes  and  shocks  which  the  soul  has 
sustained  in  its  connection  with  the  body, 
and  with  impunity  too,  perhaps  we  may 
see  some  reason  to  correct  the  impression 
we  may  have  formed,  that  it  will  certainly 
perish  with  the  body.  Take  the  foetal  life, 
for  example,  and  compare  it  with  infancy. 
Here  is  a  change,  both  in  the  mode  and 
means  of  existence,  as  great  as  any  thing 
can  possibly  be,  and  a  change,  the  survival 
of  which,  prior  to  experience,  we  should 
have  pronounced  absolutely  impossible. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  change 
from  infancy  to  youth,  and  from  youth  to 
manhood  and  old  age.  The  fact  is  a  de- 
monstrable one,  that  we  have  many  times 
over,  during  these  different  periods,  parted 
with  every  particle  of  our  bodies,  and  are 
physically  totally  different  beings ;  and  yet 
the  fact  is  equally  demonstrable,  that,  not- 
withstanding these  astonishing  changes, 
we  ourselves,  our  thinking  principle,  our 


OF    THE    MIND.  225 

personal  identity,  are  still  the  same;  for 
we  can  go  back  to  our  earliest  days,  and 
pronounce  with  confidence  that  we  are  the 
same  individual  beings.  Still  more,  we 
may  see  in  the  animal  kingdom  instances  of 
a  change  so  closely  resembling  death,  that, 
but  for  the  experience  we  have  had  that  it 
is  not  so,  we  should  unhesitatingly  pro- 
nounce it  to  be  death,  which  yet  is  only 
a  change  preparatory  to  a  higher  order  of 
existence.  For  example,  we  see  the  slimy 
worm  gradually  losing  its  sensibility  and 
its  power  of  motion,  and  wrap  itself  in  its 
winding-sheet,  so  cold,  so  inert,  so  void  of 
feeling,  that  a  child  would  pronounce  it 
dead,  and  examine  it  closely  as  we  may, 
there  is  no  evidence  that  it  contains  the 
principle  of  life ;  yet,  from  its  chill  and 
narrow  cell,  the  gilded  butterfly  bursts  forth, 
and  wings  its  way  to  other  scenes  and 
other  modes  of  existence.  Again,  we  not 
unfrequently  see,  that,  from  the  ravages 
15 


226  THE    IMMORTALITY 

of  disease,  from  apoplexy,  injury,  and 
fainting,  as  also  in  sleep,  the  mind,  the 
thinking  principle  within  us,  is  for  a  time 
as  much  removed  from  view  as  it  is  by 
death,  and  is  apparently  annihilated;  yet 
we  know  that  it  was  only  veiled  from 
our  notice,  and  could  not  develop  itself  at 
the  time  through  the  organs  of  the  body 
with  which  it  was  connected.  If  so,  if  it 
can  be  veiled  from  our  view  at  all,  without 
involving  its  destruction,  why  may  it  not 
be  so  for  a  longer  period,  as  in  death,  and 
still  be  continued  in  existence?  We  see 
not.  And  why  may  we  not  suppose,  that, 
having  survived  these  natural  changes  of 
the  body,  which  any  one  unacquainted  with 
the  fact  would  have  pronounced  impos- 
sible, and  which  were  necessary  to  a  higher 
state  of  being,  death  itself  is  only  a  more 
sudden  change,  equally  introductory  and 
necessary  to  the  further  and  higher  devel- 
opment of  what  has  already  survived  so 


OF    THE    MIND.  227 

much  ?  Or,  to  make  the  case  stronger,  if 
we  have  survived  the  loss  of  our  material 
frames,  which  have  been  taken  from  us 
particle  by  particle  again  and  again,  why 
may  we  not  part  with  them  as  naturally, 
though  suddenly,  and  still  continue  to 
exist,  as  in  the  former  instances,  in  some 
higher  state  or  order  of  being  ?  From  what 
has  been  said,  we  think  that  a  fair  conclu- 
sion may  be  drawn  in  favor  of  the  soul's 
surviving  the  dissolution  of  the  body,  unless 
it  can  be  proved  that  death  will  be  its  cer- 
tain destruction.  Now,  this  cannot  be 
done ;  for  beyond  what  we  call  death  we 
cannot  go,  and  consequently  can  argue  no- 
thing about  the  soul's  future.  It  has  been 
conducted  to  this  point  against  all  probabi- 
lity ;  and  why,  we  ask,  shall  it  not  continue 
to  be  preserved  through  this  also  ?  The  ana- 
logy of  the  past  is  certainly  in  its  favor. 

We  have,  moreover,  in  the  circumstances 
of  death,  however  much  at  first  view  it  may 


228  THE    IMMORTALITY 

favor  the  utter  annihilation  of  the  soul,  one 
of  the  strongest  arguments  for  its  immor- 
tality. It  is  this.  Death  is  not  the  de- 
struction even  of  our  bodies;  of  all  the 
particles  which  compose  them,  not  a  single 
one  is  lost  or  destroyed ;  they  merely 
undergo  a  chemical  decomposition,  are 
separated,  subjected  to  new  laws  and  to 
new  modes  of  existence ;  and,  if  so,  shall 
not  the  thinking  principle  continue  to  exist  ? 
If  gross  matter  does  not  perish,  must  the 
mind  die?  You  would  think  but  poorly 
of  the  reasoning  which  would  lead  to  such 
a  conclusion.  We  grant  that  the  Deity 
has  power  to  annihilate  the  mind  if  he 
pleases ;  but,  before  arriving  at  such  a  con- 
clusion, we  ought  to  have  potent  reasons 
for*  believing,  that,  while  he  saves  every 
element  of  the  body,  he  destroys  the  spirit 
alone. 

But  it  may  be  said,  that,  granting  the 
fact,   as   we   must,  that  the   particles    of 


OF    THE    MIND.  229 

the  body  are  not  destroyed,  but  are  only 
separated,  still,  if  the  mind  be  compounded 
with  our  material  frames,  at  the  moment 
of  death,  with  the  particles  of  the  latter, 
our  intellectual  faculties  may  be  scattered 
by  the  four  winds  of  heaven;   and  what 
better  is  this  than  annihilation  ?     I  answer, 
that  even  this  would  be  better ;  for,  so  long 
as  the  particles  of  matter  composing  the 
organization  which  was  united  with  mind, 
or   (if  this  view  is  preferred)   which   was 
productive  of  so  great  a  result  as  mind, 
are  suffered  to  exist,  I  must  be  permitted 
to  hope  and  believe,  that  the  mind,  or  this 
glorious  result  of  organization,  will  continue 
to  live  also.     The  same  power  that  made 
could   recombine   them   again.      And   we 
have  still  greater  reasons  for  believing  thus, 
which  will  be  alluded  to  hereafter.      But 
this  idea,  that  we  are  so  compounded  that 
the  particles  of  our  bodies  cannot  be  sepa- 
rated at  death,  without  involving  the  disso- 


230  THE    IMMORTALITY 

lution  also  of  our  intellectual  natures,  pro- 
ceeds, I  think,  from  false  views  of  the  sub- 
ject. The  truth  is,  we  cannot  but  believe 
that  the  soul,  whatever  its  specific  nature 
may  be,  is  actually  distinct,  indivisible,  and 
separate  from  the  body,  although  in  its 
present  state  closely  united  with  it.  And 
this  we  infer  from  what  w^e  can  learn  of  its 
nature.  Its  phenomena,  such  as  include 
all  the  intellectual  operations,  as  percep- 
tion, memory,  imagination,  all  our  emo- 
tions of  grief,  joy,  and  the  like,  are  entirely 
different  from  the  phenomena  or  pro- 
perties of  matter,  of  which  the  body  is 
composed,  such  as  extension,  elasticity, 
inertia,  and  some  others;  and  seem  to 
belong  to  different  essences.  The  mode, 
too,  by  which  we  arrive  at  a  knowledge  of 
them  is  as  opposite  as  are  their  pheno- 
mena. "We  cannot  contemplate  them 
through  the  same  faculty.  One  class  is 
made   known    to   us  internally,  the  other 


OF    THE    MIND.  231 

externally ;  the  one  by  a  consciousness  or 
feeling  within,  the  other  by  our  senses 
from  without.  If,  moreover,  we  attempt 
to  compare  these  two  classes  of  phenomena 
with  each  other,  in  order  to  determine 
whether  they  are  of  the  same  kind,  and 
may  probably  belong  to  the  same  essence, 
we  cannot  discover  the  slightest  analogy 
between  them.  On  the  contrary,  there 
results  from  the  contemplation  of  one  class 
a  notion  which  is  quite  irreconcilable  with 
that  which  results  from  the  contemplation 
of  the  other  class.  We  cannot  subject 
corporeal  matter  and  its  attributes  to  our 
examination,  without  conceiving  it,  as  well 
as  the  space  which  it  occupies,  to  be  in  its 
nature  infinitely  divisible,  or  capable  of 
separation  and  division  without  end.  On 
the  other  hand,  we  cannot  contemplate  the 
phenomena  of  mind,  or  make  the  mental 
operations  of  which  we  are  conscious  the 
subject   of    our  reflection,   without   being 


232  THE    IMMORTALITY 

irresistibly  convinced  that  they  belong  to 
one  being  or  thing,  which  is  in  itself  abso- 
lutely indivisible.  Our  perceptions,  recol- 
lections, thoughts,  feelings,  emotions  of 
sorrow  and  of  joy,  are  all  felt  by  us  to 
belong  to  a  self-same  being,  which  we  can- 
not, by  the  utmost  effort  of  the  imagination, 
fancy  to  be  divided  into  parts  or  separated. 
We  feel  and  know  it  to  be  a  single,  indi- 
visible being.  We  infer,  also,  the  distinct- 
ness of  the  soul,  from  attending  to  some  of 
its  operations.  If  it  be  not  distinct,  it  has 
been  asked,  "  How  can  we  account  for  that 
power  of  abstracting  itself  in  deep  medita- 
tion ;  of  being,  as  it  were,  absent  from  the 
body,  unmoved  by  the  cravings  of  its  appe- 
tites, and  insensible  to  all  external  impres- 
sions ; "  that  power  which  it  possesses  of 
controlling,  by  the  fiat  of  its  will,  the  mo- 
tion of  every  muscle  and  of  every  nerve ; 
"  of  combining  and  arranging  its  ideas,  and 
of  even  correcting  and  overruling  the  evi- 


OF    THE    MIND.  233 

dences  that  are  brought  to  it  from  the 
senses,  and  of  not  unfrequently  substituting 
conclusions  of  its  own  of  an  entirely  oppo- 
site character  ?  What  shall  we  say  of  the 
power  it  has  of  forming  thoughts  which 
are  purely  spiritual  and  intellectual ;  of  the 
vigor  and  brightness  it  sometimes  exhibits 
in  the  hour  of  death,  when  the  frame  which 
encompasses  it  is  tottering,  and  crumbling 
to  dust;  of  its  activity  and  invention,  and 
fertility  of  fancy  and  imagination,  when 
the  world  is  shut  out,  and  the  senses  are 
fast  locked  in  sleep  ?  "  Surely,  we  cannot 
account  for  these  wonderful  operations  of 
mind,  without  supposing  it  to  be  in  its 
nature  very  different  from  the  body. 

We  know,  also,  from  our  own  conscious- 
ness, that  the  mind  is  distinct  and  indivisi- 
ble ;  for  we  know  that  consciousness  is  one, 
and  hence  that  the  substance,  whatever  it 
may  be,  in  which  it  resides,  must  be  one 
also.     If  this  substance  be  not  one,  then  jt 


234 


THE    IMMORTALITY 


is  capable  of  division,  and,  if  capable  of 
division  at  al^,  it  is  infinitely  so ;  for  we 
cannot  conceive  of  any  thing,  however 
small  it  may  be,  and  however  much  it  may 
have  been  divided,  that  is  not  suscepti- 
ble of  being  divided  again.  Is  it  not  so  ? 
Conceive,  then,  of  the  smallest  substance 
you  can,  of  a  substance  which  must  be  a 
million  times  magnified  before  you  can 
discern  it;  now  think  of  it,  if  you  can, 
without  having  any  extension ;  think  of  it, 
if  you  can,  without  having  a  top  and  a 
bottom,  a  right-hand  side  and  a  left.  You 
cannot ;  and,  if  not,  it  may  be  divided,  and 
again,  and  the  process  may  be  carried  on 
ad  infinitum.  This  capability  of  division 
may  be  aflSrmed  of  all  matter,  conse- 
quently of  any  part  of  the  body,  or  of  the 
brain,  which  we  consider  as  the  chosen 
residence  of  the  mind.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  unity,  I  mean  indivisible  unity, 
which  can  be  ascribed  to   any   of  them. 


OF    THE    MIND. 


235 


Now,  if  the  mind  be  but  a  part  of  the 
body  or  of  the  brain,  under  particular  orga- 
nization, with  the  particles  which  compose 
it  the  mind  must  be  divisible  also,  and 
consequently  may  share  their  fate  at  death, 
whatever  it  may  be.  Try  the  mind,  then, 
by  this  law  of  divisibility  belonging  to  all 
matter,  and  see  if  it  applies.  Take  again 
the  power  of  consciousness,  the  conscious- 
ness of  our  existence,  for  example :  can  we 
conceive  of  its  being  separated,  so  that  a 
part  shall  be  here  and  a  part  there  ?  No. 
If  not,  if  we  cannot  divide  the  power  of 
consciousness,  still  less  can  we  divide  the 
substance  in  which  it  resides,  the  conscious 
being.  The  me  is  confessedly  a  permanent 
being.  Every  individual  feels  and  acts  as 
if  he  were  one  and  identical,  and  as  such 
he  is  invariably  considered  by  others,  not- 
withstanding the  admitted  fact,  that  the 
material  components  of  his  body  are  sub- 
ject to  perpetual  mutation;   for  over  this 


236  THE    IMMORTALITY 

ceaseless  cycle  of  change  presides  that 
power  which  controls  and  governs  at  its 
will.  Take,  again,  some  of  the  emotions 
of  the  mind,  as  joy  and  sorrow:  if  they 
belong  not  strictly  to  a  substance  which  is 
indivisible,  and  distinct  from  the  brain, 
then,  —  the  brain  having,  for  instance,  ten 
thousand  particles,  —  we  must  have  a  sor- 
row or  a  joy  composed  of  ten  thousand  lit- 
tle joys  or  sorrows ;  for  an  aggregate,  or  the 
brain  as  a  whole,  cannot  possess  in  kind 
what  does  not  appertain  to  the  particles  of 
which  it  is  composed.  Now,  can  you  con- 
ceive of  ten  thousand  little  joys  or  sorrows 
composing  a  whole  one?  Can  you  con- 
ceive of  half  a  joy,  or  half  a  sorrow,  or  of 
one  which  has  a  top  and  a  bottom?  If 
not,  -our  joys  and  our  sorrows,  having  no 
properties  in  pommon  with  the  particles  of 
the  brain,  must  be  distinct  in  their  kind; 
and  consequently  the  substance,  or  the 
mind  in  which  they  reside,  must  be  distinct 


OF    THE    MIND.  2^ 

also.  Again,  there  is  no  such  oneness  in 
matter  as  can  be  ascribed  to  a  thought, 
for  example.  What  we  call  a  whole, 
as  the  brain  for  instance,  having  an  ag- 
gregate of  particles,  possesses  no  unity 
about  it,  for  it  can  still  be  divided ;  and,  if 
thought  be  matter,  ten  thousand  little 
thoughts  can  no  more  produce  one  thought 
than  the  same  number  of  particles  of  mat- 
ter can  compose  one  single  indivisible  sub- 
stance. If  thought  be  a  compound  of  matter, 
like  the  brain,  then  it  is  composed  of  an  in- 
finitely divisible  number  of  thoughts,  as  is 
this  organ  of  an  infinitely  divisible  number 
of  particles.  It  follows,  if  this  distinction 
between  mind  and  matter  be  well-founded, 
as  I  believe  it  is,  that  our  bodies  are,  strictly 
speaking,  no  parts  of  ourselves  (I  mean  of 
course  of  our  minds)  any  more  than  any 
foreign  matter  is,  certainly  not  more  than 
those  particles  of  matter  which  we  had 
with  us  some  seven  years  since,  and  in  as 


238  THE    IMMORTALITY 

close  a^connection  as  those  we  have  now, 
but  which  may  have  been  served  up  to  us  in 
the  form  of  a  vegetable,  or  have  become  a 
component  part  of  the  roof  which  gives  us 
its  shelter,  or  may  again  enter  into  the  for- 
mation of  our  frames.  And  it  is  as  easy  to 
conceive  that  we  may  exist  out  of  our  bodies 
as  in  them ;  or,  certainly,  as  to  conceive 
that  we  shall  exist  at  some  future  time  in 
bodies  to  which  we  have  not  now  the  slight- 
est relation,  as  we  certainly  shall  if  we  live 
much  longer.  And  we  have  almost  as 
much  reason  to  believe  that  we  shall  sur- 
vive the  sudden  fall  of  our  present  bodies, 
as  that  we  have  survived  the  old  ones, 
which  some  of  us  have  repeatedly  cast 
off. 

It- is  true,  the  connection  between  our 
bodies  and  our  minds  is  intimate  and  es- 
sential while  we  stay  here  upon  the  earth. 
The  body,  and  ^he  organs  of  the  mind,  are 
given  us  for  our  convenience,  and  are  the 


I 


OF    THE    MIND.  239 

necessary  media  by  which  we  communi- 
cate with  earth,  and  by  which  the  various 
faculties    of    the    mind    manifest    them- 
selves.    When  it  shall  be  time  for  us  to 
go  hence,  these  instruments,  having  served 
their  purpose,  and  having  become  incum- 
brances perhaps  to  our  entrance  upon  that 
state  where  intellect  and  mind  are  alone  to 
be  found,  like  fetters  shall  be  struck  off,  and 
the  mind  escape  unhurt  "  amid  the  war  of 
elements,   the   wreck   of  matter,   and  the 
crush  of  worlds."    But  I  have  no  sympathy 
with  those  who  consider  this  material  frame 
as  worthless  or  vile.      I   may  be  allowed 
(excuse  the  personality)  to  consider  it  as  a 
vehicle,  curiously  wrought  to  be  sure,  —  for 
it  was  made  by  a  wise  and  almighty  Archi- 
tect,—  in  which  I  am  to  embark  on  some 
short  or  long  and  distant  journey,  and  fur- 
nished with  every  thing  valuable  for  the 
comfort  and    intellectual  ..and    moral  im- 
provement of  so  precious  a  personage.     It 


240  THE    IMMORTALITY 

is  provided  with  all  necessary  machinery, 
to  repair  the  wear  and  tear,  and  the  disas- 
ters it  may  meet  with,  and  to  overcome  the 
hindrances  it  may  encounter  on  the  road.  It 
is  so  constructed  that  I  may  move  it  in  any 
direction  at  my  will.  I  may  press  on  in 
the  narrow  and  direct  way,  which,  though 
rough  at  first,  is  smoothest  at  last;  or  I 
may  stray  into  forbidden  paths,  on  account 
of  the  gentle  declivities  they  present,  and 
some  treacherous  flowers  which  may  be 
growing  upon  their  borders,  neglectful  of 
my  duty,  and  forgetting  the  frightful  steeps 
I  must  climb  to  pay  for  my  temerity.  It  is 
fitted  up,  moreover,  with  the  most  delicate 
instruments  of  every  description,  to  assist 
me  in  the  culture  of  moral  and  intellectual 
excellence,  which  something  within  tells  me 
is  the  great  object  of  my  journey,  and  the 
only  thing  valuable  in  the  home  where  I 
hope  to  arrive,  when  I  shall  step  out  of  the 
vehicle  which  has  borne  me  along.     These 


OF    THE    MIND.  241 

I 

instruments,  in  proportion  to  their  delicacy 
and  magnitude,  will  be  in  some  degree  the 
measure  of  my  power  and  responsibility. 
I  may  use  or  abuse  this  frame,  and  shall  be 
proportionally  happy  or  miserable  when  it 
shall  be  broken  and  gone.  I  may  be  called 
to  leave  it  early  or  late ;  it  may  break  down 
in  the  pride  of  its  glory,  and  fresh  as  it  came 
from  the  hands  of  its  Maker,  or  when,  shat- 
tered by  time  and  shorn  of  its  lustre,  it  is 
scarcely  able  to  sustain  itself.  This  home 
of  which  I  speak  may  be  conjectural,  in- 
deed; yet  I  cannot  but  hope  to  j&nd  it 
at  last,  more  especially  as  the  frail  tene- 
ment I  now  occupy,  though  ruined  for 
me,  will  still  continue  to  exist,  and  its 
materials  will  be  worked  over  again  for 
the  accomplishment  of  some  worthy  end,  it 
may  be,  for  the  conveyance  of  another  like 
myself.  From  this  figure  (if  figure  it  may 
be  called)  may  be  gathered  what  I  under- 
stand to  be  the  distinction  between  matter 

16 


242  THE    IMMORTALITY 

and  mind,  as  also  their  connection  and  rela- 
tive importance. 

"  What  am  I,  whence  produced,  and  for  wliat  end  ? 
Whence  drew  I  being,  to  what  period  tend  ? 
Am  I  the  abandoned  orphan  of  wild  chance, 
Dropped  by  ■wild  atoms  in  disordered  dance  ? 
Or  from  an  endless  chain  of  causes  wrought, 
And  of  unthinking  substance,  born  with  thought  ? 
Am  I  but  what  I  seem,  mere  flesh  and  blood, 
A  branching  channel  mth  a  mazy  flood  ? 
The  purple  stream,  that  through  my  vessels  glides, 
Dull  and  unconscious  flows,  like  common  tides ; 
The  pipes,  through  which  the  circling  juices  stray. 
Are  not  that  thinking  I,  no  more  than  they. 
This  frame,  compacted  with  transcendent  skill. 
Of  moving  joints,  obedient  to  my  will. 
Nursed  from  the  fruitful  glebe,  like  yonder  tree. 
Waxes  and  wastes,  —  I  call  it  mine,  not  me. 
New  matter  still  the  mouldering  mass  sustains ; 
The  mansion  changed,  the  tenant  still  remains  ; 
And  from  the  fleeting  stream,  repaired  by  food, 
Distinct  as  is  the  swimmer  from  the  flood." 

Again,  it  may  be  objected,  that  the  mind, 
although  not  strictly  speaking  matter  itself, 
or  a   component   part   of   the   brain,   still 


OF    THE    MIND. 


243 


may  be  the  result  of  the  whole,  under  par- 
ticular circumstances  of  organization:  as, 
for  instance,  in  the  chemical  mixture  of  two 
bodies,  the  result,  or  the  third  substance 
produced,  is  totally  different  from  the  two  of 
which  it  was  composed ;  as  pieces  of  ma- 
chinery display  mechanical  powers,  which 
could  not  have  been  looked  for  in  their 
parts  when  separate ;  or,  still  more,  as 
electricity  or  galvanism  is  a  result,  a  pro- 
perty, which  nobody  could  discover  in  single 
jars  of  glass  or  plates  of  metal.  If  such 
results  as  these  can  be  produced  from  com- 
binations of  matter,  why  may  not  thought 
also  be  merely  a  result  of  organized  brain  ? 
This  is  a  denial  of  the  proposition  we  have 
advanced,  that,  in  all  combinations  of  mate- 
rial parts,  the  properties  of  the  whole  or  the 
aggregate  cannot  be  different  in  kind  from 
those  of  its  parts ;  or,  if  we  take  away  the 
properties  of  the  parts,  we  take  away  the 
properties  of  the  whole  or  aggregate.    Now, 


244  THE    IMMORTALITY 

as  to  this  idea  of  mind's  being  merely  a 
result,  we  say  that  figure,  magnitude,  and 
motion  (in  which  last  are  included  attrac- 
tion and  repulsion)  are  the  universal  powers 
and  properties  of  material  particles,  and 
from  the  combinations  of  material  particles 
nothing  has  ever  been  known  to  result  but 
some  modification  of  figure,  magnitude, 
and  motion.  It  is,  therefore,  directly  in  op- 
position to  the  results  of  universal  experi- 
ence to  suppose,  that  a  combination  of 
material  particles  can  give  rise  to  the  pheno- 
mena, or  constitute  the  operations  peculiar 
to  mind,  or  those  feelings  of  which  we  are 
internally  conscious.  The  contractions  and 
lengthenings  of  cords  or  fibres,  and  the 
movement  of  fluid  particles,  must  ever  be 
soirfething  different  in  kind  from  the  emo- 
tions of  pleasure  and  pain,  hope  and  fear. 
Besides,  as  we  have  before  suggested,  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  unity  of  result  from 
what  is  called  a  material  whole,  because 


OF    THE    MIND.  945 

there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  material  whole 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term ;  there  is  no 
unity  about  it;  we  cannot  think  of  any 
collection  of  particles  so  congregated  that 
it  cannot  be  divided,  and  if  divided  at 
all,  it  may  be  so  ad  infinitum.  If  this  be 
true,  and  it  cannot  be  disputed,  there  can 
be  no  such  thing  as  a  unity  of  result  from 
a  material  whole,  such  as  the  brain  is.  It 
must  be  an  infinity  of  results  corresponding 
with  the  infinity  of  particles  of  which  the 
latter  is  composed ;  and,  if  such  be  the  re- 
sult which  is  called  mind,  then  it  is  com- 
pounded of  an  infinity  of  little  results, 
which  is  infinite  nonsense ;  because  then  it 
would  partake  pf  the  common  properties 
of  matter,  such  as  divisibility,  hardness, 
softness,  and  the  like. 

In  regard  to  the  examples  above-men- 
tioned, of  results  being  different  from  the 
materials  from  which  they  are  elicited,  we 
answer  that  they  are  fallacious.     In  chemi- 


246  THE    IMMORTALITY 

cal  compounds,  all  the  properties  of  the 
agents  employed  themselves  into  modi- 
fications of  one  property,  viz.  that  of 
chemical  affinity,  or  the  elective  attraction 
of  particles  of  various  kinds  for  each  other. 
This  one  property,  from  which  all  the  ope- 
rations of  chemistry  result,  is  modified,  and, 
with  respect  to  particular  substances,  in- 
creased or  diminished  by  chemical  compo- 
sition; but  still  nothing  new  in  kind  is 
acquired  by  any  chemical  combination 
whatever.  In  like  manner,  the  mechanical 
powers,  which  are  the  results  of  machinery 
or  construction,  may  be  explained,  without 
proving  that  any  power  new  in  kind  has 
been  generated.  In  regard  to  electricity 
and  galvanism,  we  have  the  most  striking 
results  from  the  combination  of  glass  jars 
and  metallic  plates,  —  something  for  which 
we  could  not  have  looked  in  any  of  them 
singly ;  and  here  we  might  suppose,  that  the 
result  is  different  in  kind  from  what  any  of 


OF    THE    MIND. 


247 


the  component  parts  of  the  machine  pos- 
sessed before.  But  it  is  not  so ;  a  new  agent 
has  not  been  called  into  existence ;  a  new 
agent  has  only  been  called  into  operation, 
but  nothing  different  from  what  was  there 
before.  The  electric  or  galvanic  fluid  be- 
longed, in  a  latent  state,  to  every  particle 
of  the  glass  and  the  metal,  and  was  only 
called  into  operation  by  new  combinations : 
no  new  agent,  or  result,  was  generated. 
So  true  is  it,  and  we  may  state  it  as  a 
universal  fact,  that  the  properties  possessed 
by  any  aggregates  whatever  of  material 
bodies  are  not  different  in  kind  from  the 
properties  of  the  parts  from  which  such 
aggregates  were  compounded,  but  are  re- 
solvable into  them.  The  human  brain, 
then,  which,  in  a  certain  way,  is  instru- 
mental in  the  operations  of  the  mind,  and 
in  fact  contains  the  organs  by  which  the 
various  faculties  of  the  mind  manifest 
themselves,  can   onlv  be   considered  as  a 


248  THE    IMMORTALITY 

collection  of  instruments,  an  auxiliary  as- 
sisting the  mind  in  the  performance  of  its 
functions,  as  a  crutch  or  a  pair  of  specta- 
cles assists  a  man  in  walking  or  seeing; 
and  as,  in  the  latter  case,  our  powers  of 
walking  or  seeing  will  be  proportioned  to 
the  goodness  of  the  instruments,  so  will  the 
faculties  of  our  minds  manifest  themselves 
more  or  less  brilliantly  as  these  organs  of 
the  brain,  which  is  its  instrument,  are  more 
or  less  delicate  or  fully  developed.  But 
still  it  is  inferior,  and  but  an  instrument. 
Being  composed  wholly  of  insentient  and 
inert  particles  of  matter,  which  are  infi- 
nitely divisible,  it  cannot  produce,  as  a  re- 
sult, mind  or  the  phenomena  of  mind,  such 
as  thought,  feeling,  and  volition ;  because 
these  phenomena  are  entirely  peculiar  and 
distinct  in  kind,  and  because  powers  or 
qualities  so  diverse  from  those  of  the  com- 
ponent parts  are  never,  within  the  sphere 
of  human  experience,  found  to  be  produced 


OF    THE    MIND.  249 

by  any  combinations  whatever.  So  much 
for  mind's  being  the  mere  result  of  orga- 
nized matter. 

But  it  may  be  further  stated,  as  an  objec- 
tion to  this  distinction  between  matter  and 
mind,  that  it  cannot  be  so  great  as  we 
imagine,  since  the  mind  is  essentially  influ- 
enced by  the  accidents  and  diseases  incident 
to  the  body,  —  that  certainly  the  powers 
which  are  not  unfrequently  weakened  by 
sickness,  and  obliterated  by  injury  and 
disease,  must  be  dependent  on  the  body  for 
their  existence,  and  perish  with  it  in  its  fall. 
There  seems  to  be  proved  an  indissoluble 
connection  between  them.  If  this  were 
universally  the  case,  I  confess  that  there 
would  be  great  weight  in  the  argument; 
but,  even  then,  it  would  not  be  conclusive. 
The  truth  is,  however,  that  this  effect  of 
disease  upon  the  mind  is  much  less  fre- 
quent than  the  reverse.  How  frequently 
do  we  stand  by  the  dying  bed,  and  look 


250  THE    IMMORTALITY 

upon  the  body  which  the  fires  of  a  fever 
have  almost  consumed,  reduced  to  the  last 
degree  of  weakness  and  emaciation,  —  so 
disfigured,  so  sadly  changed,  that,  but  for 
the  intellect  and  the  affections  which  are 
glowing  within,  we  should  hardly  recognize 
its  possessor,  —  the  soul  regarding  with 
a  holy  calmness  the  ruin  of  the  outward 
frame,  enduring  with  a  fortitude  which  no 
tortures  can  shake,  and  exercising  an  un- 
broken intellect  amid  the  wreck  of  a  dying 
body!  Nay,  more,  in  cases  (and  surely 
my  observation  has  not  been  limited)  where 
the  mind  had  become  so  shattered  and  torn 
and  maddened  by  the  fury  of  disease  as  to 
render  it  almost  incredible  that  it  should 
ever  be  roused  again  from  its  delirium,  I 
have  seen  it  in  such  instances,  and  not 
rarely,  suddenly  burst  forth,  and  gleam  with 
more  than  its  original  lustre,  as  if  it  would 
leave  an  argument  behind,  that,  in  the 
obscuration  it  had  suffered,  it  had  not  been 


OF    THE    MIND.  251 

shorn  of  its  glory,  and  a  pledge  that  it 
would  continue  to  brighten,  even  after 
it  should  have  passed  beneath  the  black 
cloud  which  was  about  to  envelop  it  in  its 
bosom.  Now,  if  we  could  produce  but  one 
such  instance,  it  would  prove  that  the 
mind  and  the  body  are  not  so  essentially 
connected  as  that  they  must  necessarily 
perish  together.  If  we  can  produce  more, 
as  we  can  by  far  the  greatest  majority, 
does  it  not  prove  that  there  is  no  necessary, 
no  natural  connection  at  all ;  that  the  body 
is  a  receptacle  fitted  for  the  mind,  which  has 
the  brain,  to  establish  its  communication 
with  earth  for  a  time,  and  is  furnished  with 
instruments  and  organs,  behind  which  it 
may  stand,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion, to  take  its  observations,  to  communi- 
cate the  result  of  its  researches,  and  make 
known  its-  feelings  to  others  ?  These  in- 
struments and  organs  are  necessary  to  the 
proper  development  of  itself  to  the  world 


252 


THE    IMMORTALITY 


and  to  other  similar  beings.  I  have  said 
that  the  brain  seems  to  be  a  collection  of 
instruments  and  organs,  by  which  alone 
the  mind  can  develop  itself.  As  they 
are  weakened  or  deranged  or  broken,  pro- 
portionally so  will  become  the  develop- 
ments of  the  mind ;  if  they  are  merely 
weakened,  its  exhibitions  will  be  those  of 
imbecility ;  if  deranged,  those  of  wildness 
and  delirium ;  if  broken,  we  shall  see  it  no 
more.  But,  in  this  derangement  of  the 
instruments  of  its  brain,  the  mind,  though 
aflfected  by  them  for  the  time,  be  it  remem- 
bered, has  lost  nothing  of  its  power,  as  is 
frequently  shown  by  its  perfect  recovery 
firom  delirium  and  from  apoplexy,  and  more 
especially  in  the  cases  I  have  mentioned, 
in  'which  the  mind,  after  having  been 
eclipsed  for  a  long  time  by  disease,  upon  a 
momentary  alleviation  becomes  suddenly 
illuminated,  shedding  its  light  even  upon 
the  borders  of  the  grave.      Or  take  more 


OF    THE    MIND.  2t)3 

familiar  and  more  simple  instances,  —  as 
of  the  sight  impaired  by  an  imperfect  for- 
mation or  an  injury  of  the  eye ;  the  defect 
is  in  the  instrument,  and  not  in  the  power ; 
repair  it,  as  you  can  by  a  glass,  and  you 
will  find  the  power  as  good  as  before ; 
pluck  it  out,  the  power  remains  the  same, 
and,  could  it  be  replaced,  we  could  so 
prove  it.  Take  off  the  leg:  we  cannot 
walk;  but  the  power  remains;  it  is  only 
the  instrument  which  is  lost;  replace  it,  or 
give  it  the  substitute  of  a  wooden  one,  and 
we  can  walk,  —  not  so  well  to  be  sure, 
but  only  because  we  have  not  so  good  an 
instrument.  I  might  go  on  in  this  way  to 
prove  that  the  power  is  distinct  from  the 
instruments  of  the  body,  and  consequently 
that  the  mind,  in  which  this  power  resides, 
is  distinct  also.  And,  having  proved  that 
the  disease  or  injury  of  some  of  the  in- 
struments of  the  body  (and  even  of  those 
affecting  some  of  the  higher  powers  of  the 


254  THE    IMMORTALITY 

mind,  as  the  memory,  judgment,  and  in 
cases  of  fever),  and  the  destruction  of 
some  others,  detract  nothing  from  the 
mind  or  its  powers,  I  have  a  right  to  infer 
that  it  will  still  remain  unimpaired  when 
they  shall  have  been  dissolved  and  taken 
away;  that  is,  that  mind  and  body  are 
perfectly  distinct. 

Again,  it  may  be  argued,  and  with  some 
plausibility,  that,  as  the  mental  powers 
have  never  been  found  but  in  conjunction 
with  a  certain  organized  system  of  matter, 
we  ought,  as  philosophers,  to  conclude  that 
these  powers  necessarily  exist  in  and  result 
from  that  organized  system,  unless  they 
can  be  shown  to  be  incompatible  with 
other  known  properties  of  the  same  sub- 
stance (and  we  really  think  we  have  shown 
this  incompatibility) ;  or,  more  simply,  as 
we  never  witness  the  phenomena  of  mind 
except  in  connection  with  those  of  matter, 
therefore  the  substance  to  which  these  two 


OF    THE    MIND.  255 

classes  belong  is  one  and  the  same.  Now, 
we  say  that  this  proposition  is  not  true. 
The  whole  universe  displays  the  most  strik- 
ing marks  of  the  existence  and  operation  of 
mind  or  intellect,  in  a  state  separate  from 
organization,  and  under  circumstances 
which  preclude  all  reference  to  organiza- 
tion. The  universal  Mind,  though  every- 
where present  where  matter  exists,  though 
everywhere  moving  and  arranging  the 
parts  of  matter,  appears  to  do  so  without 
being  united  with  matter,  as  in  the  case  of 
visible  created  beings.  There  is,  therefore, 
at  least  one  being  or  substance  of  that 
nature  which  we  call  mind,  separate  and 
distinct  from  organized  matter.  And,  if  the 
phenomena  of  mind  can  be  discovered  in 
one  instance  in  a  state  absolutely  separate 
from  organized  matter,  it  is  philosophical 
to  conclude,  when  we  do  find  these  pheno- 
mena connected  and  organized  with  that 
with  which  they  have  no  property  in  com- 


I 


256  THE    IMMORTALITY 

raon,  that  the  connection  is  owing  to  tem- 
porary circumstances,  and  that  it  is  not 
natural  and  essential. 

This  connection  of  mind  and  matter,  as 
existing  in  the  brain  of  man,  is  indeed 
wonderful;  but,  mysterious  as  it  is,  it  is 
one,  which,  with  a  previous  belief  in  the 
existence  of  God  as  the  great  and  universal 
Spirit,  we  might  have  had  good  reasons, 
even  prior  to  experience,  to  have  expected ; 
for  it  is  in  close  accordance  with  what  we 
witness  in  the  other  departments  of  God's 
government.  The  whole  analogy  of  nature 
seems  to  confirm  it.  There  is  a  connecting 
medium  leading  from  the  lowest  order  of 
matter  quite  up  to  the  throne  of  God ; 
there  is  no  sudden  break  in  the  series ; 
there  is  no  violence  in  the  transition  from 
one  order  of  being  to  another;  it  is  so 
natural  and  gradual  that  we  are  at  a  loss 
sometimes  to  distinguish  their  boundaries ; 
every  part  is  in  a  state  of  progression,  and 


OF    THE    MIND.  257 

striving  at  something  more  perfect  than 
itself;  unfolding  a  beautiful  scale  of  ascen- 
sion, every  division  harmoniously  playing 
into  every  other  division,  and,  with  the 
■  nicest  adjustment,  preparing  for  its  further- 
ance, — 

«« AH  serred,  all  serving ;  nothing  stands  alone ; 
The  chain  holds  on,  and  where  it  ends  unknown." 

Between  the  mineral  and  vegetable  king- 
doms, for  instance,  we  have  substances 
which  seem  to  partake  of  the  nature  of 
both ;  so  also  between  the  vegetable  and 
animal,  and  through  the  higher  orders  of  the 
latter,  where  there  is  a  machinery  of  mind, 
as  in  the  monkey  and  orang-outang  tribe, 
up  to  its  more  perfect  development  in  man, 
who  himself  seems  the  connecting  medium 
between  matter  and  mind,  between  animal 
and  intellectual  existences.  And,  viewing 
this  uniform  gradation  of  being,  was  it  not 
natural  to  expect  its  continuance,  so  that, 
17 


258  THE    IMMORTALITY 

in  the  complex  nature  of  man,  the  visible 
should  be  connected  with  the  invisible 
world,  the  spiritual  with  the  material,  and 
thus  his  alliance  be  made  good  with  angels, 
and,  through  them,  with  the  universal  Spi- 
rit, and  great  Author  of  all  ?  "We  cannot 
but  think  the  analogy  perfect  and  con- 
clusive. 

If  it  now  be  said,  (abandoning  the  idea 
that  mind  is  matter,  or  merely  a  result,)  that 
the  Creator,  being  omnipotent,  could  cer- 
tainly endow  material  particles,  in  a  state 
of  organization,  with  whatever  powers  it 
pleased  him  to  bestow,  we  answer,  that,  if 
the  powers  bestowed  upon  any  system  of 
parts  were  such  as  did  not  result  from  the 
modification  or  composition  of  the  powers 
of  the  parts,  the  endowing  such  a  system 
with  new  powers  or  properties  means,  if  it 
means  any  thing,  the  adding  of  something 
new  in  kind,  some  new  thing,  some  new 
entity,  to  which  these  powers  belong.    This 


OF    THE    MIND.  259 

we  will  grant;  and  this  we  call  mind. 
What  it  is,  we  know  not,  nor  can  we  know 
here.     We  must 

'« "Wait  the  great  teacher  death,  and  God  adore." 

I  have  thus  given  you  a  few  arguments 
in  favor  of  the  immortality  and  immate- 
riality of  the  mind.  Time  prevents  my 
enlarging.  But  one  thing,  on  the  subject 
of  immaterialism,  in  which  I  fully  believe, 
because  it  has  greater  weight  of  argument, 
is  encumbered  with  fewer  difficulties,  and 
has  less  dangerous  tendencies,  than  the 
opposite  theory,  —  one  thing,  I  say,  have  I 
learnt,  and  that  is  modesty  and  toleration 
towards  an  opponent.  Against  the  philo- 
sophical and  conscientious  materialist  will 
I  never  rise  in  judgment.  We  do  wrong 
in  confounding  atheism  with  materialism  : 
they  are  not  essentially  connected.  A  belief 
in  materialism  is  consistent  with  a  firm 
belief  in  the   continued   existence   of  the 


260  THE    IMMORTALITY 

ijiind.  The  same  Being  that  combined 
them  at  first  can  and  will  recombine  them 
if  it  pleases  him.  Priestley  was  a  mate- 
rialist. Dr.  Good,  against  whom  the  charge 
of  ultraism  can  never  be  brought,  believed 
the  soul  a  certain  refinement  of  matter,  — 
in  fact,  was  a  transcendental  materialist! 
Hear,  too,  what  Locke  says :  "  All  the  diffi- 
culties that  are  raised  against  the  thinking 
of  matter,  from  our  ignorant  or  narrow 
conceptions,  after  all,  stand  not  in  the  way 
of  the  power  of  God,  if  he  pleases  to  ordain 
it  so."  Bishop  Watson,  too,  the  great  de- 
fender of  revelation,  says,  "  Believing  as  I 
do  in  its  truth,  I  am  not  disturbed  at  my 
inability  clearly  to  convince  myself  that 
the  mind  is  not  a  substance  distinct  from 
the  body."  And  many  have  been  the  con- 
scientious materialists  who  have  been  the 
noble  defenders  of  Christianity,  and  of  a 
continued  existence  to  the  mind. 

We  come  now  to  another  class  of  argu- 


.     OF    THE    MIND.  261 

ments,  the  moral  proofs  of  the  future  exist- 
ence of  the  soul.  But,  before  going  further, 
it  may  be  weU  to  give  a  short  summary  of 
the  arguments  which  have  been  already 
advanced. 

The  first  was,  that,  although  death 
seems  to  be  ,the  destruction  of  every 
thing,  a  little  reflection  may  teach  us  that 
it  need  be  nothing  more  than  a  change. 
Proofs  were  given  of  the  changes  we 
have  already  undergone,  in  parting  with 
our  material  frames  over  and  over  again  ; 
changes,  which,  prior  to  experience,  we 
should  have  pronounced  beyond  all  ques- 
tion fatal;  and,  having  been  conducted  to 
the  point  of  death  through  all  these  changes, 
and  against  probability,  the  inference  was 
drawn,  that  death  may  be  nothing  more 
than  a  change,  —  though  a  sudden  one, 
still  natural;  and  as  the  other  changes  we 
have  undergone  have  been  succeeded  by 
higher   states   of  existence   for  the  mind. 


262 


THE    IMMORTALITY 


SO  may  death  be  no  less  naturally  the 
introduction  of  it  to  a  still  higher  order 
of  being. 

2.  The  second  was  derived  from  the  eco- 
nomy of  nature.  Death  is  not  destruc- 
tion: even  the  elements  of  the  body  are 
saved.  It  was  asked,  if  gross  matter  is 
not  wasted  and  lost,  can  the  mind,  of 
superior  worth,  die  ?  The  Deity  can  anni- 
hilate it;  but  will  he  destroy  the  soul,  and 
save  nothing  but  the  body  ? 

8.  The  third  was  an  answer  to  the  ob- 
jection, that,  if  the  mind  and  body  are 
strictly  compounded,  the  former  must  be 
separated  and  dissolved  with  the  body  at 
death ;  and  that  this  could  in  no  wise 
differ  from  annihilation.  My  answer  was, 
thai;,  if  it  need  were,  I  could  believe  in 
a  material  soul  rather  than  in  none;  for, 
while  mere  matter  is  saved,  I  cannot 
believe  that  so  great  a  result  as  the  mind 
will  be  lost.      The  power  that  combined 


OF    THE    MIND.  2^ 

them  at  first  can  and  will  recombine 
them  again.  I  would  here  repeat,  that 
we  do  wrong  in  confounding  atheism  with 
materialism:  they  are  not  essentially  con- 
nected. A  belief  in  materialism  is  consis- 
tent with  a  firm  belief  in  the  future  exist- 
ence of  the  soul.  No  better  men  or  better 
Christians  than  some  materialists  I  might 
name  has  the  world  ever  produced.  With 
this  admission,  I  endeavored  to  prove  that 
matter  and  mind  are  not  so  compounded, 
because  I  believe  this  view  to  be  more 
consistent  with  truth,  to  be  less  encum- 
bered with  difficulties,  and  to  involve  less 
dangerous  tendencies,  than  the  other  theo- 
ry. My  argument  rested  upon  the  infinite 
divisibility  of  matter,  and  the  total  contra- 
riety between  the  phenomena  of  mind  and 
of  matter.  If  they  were  the  same,  our 
minds,  thoughts,  sorrows,  and  joys  could  be 
divided  with  the  brain,  and  would  partake 
of  its  properties,  so  that  we  should  have 


264  THE    IMMORTALITY 

thoughts  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  hard  and 
soft,  round  and  square.  But  our  conscious- 
ness is  single,  and  so  are  our  different 
emotions,  —  consequently  the  mind  in 
which  they  reside  is  single  and  distinct 
from  the  body;  and,  as  it  has  changed 
several  times,  so  may  it  again. 

4.  To  the  objection  that  the  mind,  al- 
though not  strictly  matter,  may  be  a  unique 
result  of  matter  under  peculiar  organiza- 
tion, it  was  answered,  that  all  experience 
is  against  this;  that  nothing  can  result 
from  the  combinations  of  matter,  as  an 
aggregate  or  whole,  which  does  not  partake 
of  the  properties  of  the  particles  of  which 
it  is  composed;  that  the  properties  of 
mind  are  peculiar;  and,  moreover,  that 
there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  a  unity  of 
result,  like  mind,  from  what  is  called  a  ma- 
terial whole;  because  there  is  no  such 
thing  in  matter  as  unity,  or  an  indivisible 
whole. 


OF    THE    MIND.  265 

5.  The  argument  against  the  perfect 
distinction  of  mind  from  matter,  drawn 
from  its  intimate  connection  with  the  body, 
and  the  sympathy  it  manifests  for  the  dis- 
eases and  accidents  of  the  latter,  so  far  from 
being  evidence  against  it,  is  even  strongly 
in  its  favor ;  for  disease  and  accident  de- 
tract nothing  from  the  power  of  the  mind,  as 
is  seen  in  the  destruction  of  some  parts  of 
the  body  (which  we  considered  as  a  collec- 
tion of  instruments  for  its  use),  and  more 
especially  in  the  full  development  of  mind 
sometimes  at  the  hour  of  death. 

6.  Against  the  objection  of  experience, 
as  it  may  be  called,  that,  as  we  never  wit- 
ness mind  but  in  connection  with  orga- 
nized matter,  it  is  philosophical  to  conclude 
that  they  have  no  separate  existence,  we 
brought  forward  one  example  at  least, — 
the  great  universal  Mind  or  Spirit;  and 
hence  inferred,  that  the  connection  in 
man  ought  to  be  considered  rather  as  acci- 


266  THE    IMMORTALITY 

dental  and  temporary  than   as   necessary 
and  essential. 

7.  We  said  also  that  the  analogy  of 
creation  is  in  favor  of  this  complex  nature 
of  man,  composed  as  he  is  of  matter  and 
mind;  that  as  there  is  a  gradation  through 
all  the  works  of  nature,  each  class  harmoni- 
ously playing  into  the  other,  and  each  stri- 
ving at  something  more  perfect  than  itself, 
it  is  natural,  we  have  a  right  to  expect, 
there  should  be  a  being  which  should  con- 
nect mind  with  matter,  the  visible  with  the 
invisible  world,  man  with  his  God,  and 
this  life  with  a  future  one. 

8.  And  finally,  if  it  be  asserted  that 
God  can  certainly  endow  matter  with  any 
powers  he  may  please,  it  was  said.  If  it 
is  truly  meant  that  something  is  annexed 
to  matter,  then  we  are  agreed :  let  others 
name  it  as  they  will,  that  something  we 
caU  mind. 

With  all  this  presumptive  proof  that  the 


OF    THE    MIND. 


267 


mind  will  survive  the  body  at  death  (and 
we  think  it  very  strong),  we  are  willing  to 
admit,  that  he  who  made  it  can  destroy  it, 
if  he  pleases.  But  we  think  it  incumbent 
on  those  who  would  oppose  us  to  give 
some  good  reasons  why  the  great  Creator, 
after  having  preserved  it  through  so  many 
violent  trials  and  changes,  should  annihilate 
it  at  death ;  and  more  especially  since  he 
saves  every  particle  of  the  gross  body, 
which  only  served  to  enclose  it  and  to  con- 
nect it  with  the  earth.  Let  it  be  our  duty 
to  offer  some  further  arguments  of  a  moral 
character  why  he  will  not ;  and  on  this,  time 
warns  me  to  be  brief. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  a  belief  in  the 
continued  existence  of  the  mind  results 
from  its  very  nature,  from  its  capacity, 
its  progress,  and  its  connection  with  God. 
We  have  said  that  gross  divisible  matter 
is  not  destroyed.  We  cannot  even  con- 
ceive of  its  annihilation ;  much  less,  then. 


268  THE    IMMORTALITY 

can  we  conceive  of  the  annihilation  of  what 
in  its  nature  is  single  and  indivisible  like 
mind.  Thus  much  for  its  essence.  In  re- 
gard to  its  capacity,  when  we  contem- 
plate the  mind,  with  its  wonderful  powers 
of  memory,  thought,  and  imagination,  em- 
ployed, not  merely  upon  the  objects  that 
are  fleeting  and  temporary,  but  looking 
back  into  all  past  time,  and  extending  its 
view  into  the  far  distant  future ;  occupying 
itself  in  investigating  subjects  the  most 
abstruse,  in  fathoming  the  depths  of  sci- 
ence, and  perpetually  tending  and  aspiring 
towards  the  enjoyment  of  some  more  com- 
plete improvement  and  felicity  than  this 
world  can  afford;  endowed  with  faculties, 
which  exalt  it  above  every  other  created 
being,  —  which  inspire  it  with  a  disposition 
to  the  practice  of  justice  and  charity,  and 
of  every  other  virtue,  —  which  prompt  it  to 
the  worship  of  a  Supreme  Being,  and  guide 
it  to  the  discovery  that  he  who  made  the 


OF    THE    MIND.  269 

earth  and  ocean,  the  starry  firmament  and 
the  everlasting  sun,  —  he  is  God ;  —  when 
we  see  it  dissatisfied  with  the  present, 
bounding  forward  in  endless  progression 
into  a  far  distant  future,  and  expatiating 
even  in  imagination  amidst  the  scenes  of 
an  eternity  to  come,  have  we  not  an  ex- 
pectant assurance  that  it  is  formed  for  a 
more  glorious  destiny  than  to  perish  for 
ever  in  the  grave  ?  Else  why  this  feverish 
hope,  this  love  of  fame,  this  restless  acti- 
vity, this  longing  after  immortality?  Is 
the  advancement  of  which  the  mind  is 
capable  in  knowledge,  virtue,  and  happi- 
ness, to  be  employed  as  an  argument  for  its 
destruction  ?  And  will  it  be  destroyed  at 
the  moment  when  it  shows  the  greatest 
capacity  for  yet  farther  improvement,  lest 
it  should  become  still  more  excellent  and 
happy?  Surely  we  cannot  ascribe  such 
motives  to  Deity :  rather  let  us  believe,  that 
the  improvement  and  happiness  of  what 


I 


270  THE    IMMORTALITY 

he  has  cherished  so  fondly,  and  provided 
for  so  bountifully,  he  will  continue  to  sus- 
tain in  endless  existence. 

We  argue  also  the  reality  of  a  future 
,  life  of  the  soul,  because  it  is  this  alone 
which  will  explain  the  mysteries  of  the  pre- 
sent state.  It  is  a  maxim  of  philosophy 
to  adopt  that  as  truth,  even  though  it 
should  not  come  within  the  evidence  of 
the  senses,  which  will  satisfactorily  explain 
what  would  be  entirely  inexplicable  with- 
out it.  We  act  upon  this  principle  in  life. 
When  Sir  Isaac  Newton  discovered  the 
universal  law  of  gravitation,  it  gained 
credence,  not  from  any  particular  know- 
ledge he  gave  of  its  essence,  or  of  its  mode 
of  operation,  for  he  knew  nothing  about  it, 
but  because  it  solved  so  perfectly  what  be- 
fore appeared  to  be  wild  confusion  in  the 
material  universe,  world  following  world, 
and  matter  swinging  in  air,  without  any 
apparent  power  to  support  it.     So  is  also 


OF    THE    MIND.  271 

the  reality  of  a  future  life  the  only  theory 
which  will  solve  the  problem  of  the  appa- 
rent moral  disorders   of   this.     We   may 
know  nothing  of  its  mode,  or  where  it  ^ill 
be,  —  by  the  terms  of  our  argument  we  are 
not  bound   to   know  about  it,  —  yet,  if 
it  will  serve  to  unlock  the  mysteries  and 
apparent  disorders  of  our  present  life,  we 
feel  bound  to  admit  the  probabili|;y  of  its 
realization.     Now,  apply  the  principle, — 
examine    the    state    of    the   moral  world 
without  it.     I  admit  a  vastly  greater  pro- 
portion of  happiness  than   misery,  for  it 
would  be  a  dreadful  school  if  it  were  not  so ; 
but,  mingled  with  it,  you  see  much  sorrow 
and  much  misery,  meted  out  in  unequal, 
and,  it  would   seem,  in  very  unjust  pro- 
portions.    You  see  the  bounties  of  Pro- 
vidence scattered  about,  as  it  were,  by  a 
capricious  hand,  —  the  virtuous  suffering  in 
poverty,  and  the  vicious  rolling  in  wealth : 
here,  the  orphan  famishing  for  sustenance ; 


272  THE    IMMORTALITY 

and  there,  old  age  mourning  in  solitude 
and    desolation :    here,  hypocrisy  success- 
fully practising  its  wiles ;  and  there,  inno- 
cence and  merit  writhing  under  the  lash  of 
calumny  and  slander,  —  man  the  prey  of 
man,  the  victim  of  every  species  of  tyranny 
and  oppression.     Enough  we  see,  could  we 
look  no  farther,  to  arraign  the  justice,  and 
even  thq  goodness,  of  our  Maker.    A  future 
life  is  the  key  to  unravel  the  mystery :  the 
mists  disperse,  and  the  darkness  flees  away. 
In  this  world  we  see  but  the  commence- 
ment of  our  existence ;  a  disciplinary  school, 
preparatory  to  another  and  a  better,  where 
all  inequality  shall  be  remedied,  and  strict, 
impartial  justice  rendered;   where,  in  the 
development  of  eternity,  the  evils  which  we 
so  much  dreaded  here  shall  be  proved  to 
have  been  but  blessings  in  disguise. 

Finally,  we  argue  the  continued  existence 
of  the  mind,  from  its  being  a  natural  senti- 
ment of  the  human  heart.     The  belief  of  a 


OF    THE    MIND.  273 

future  life  is  not  founded  upon  the  thin- 
spun  speculations  of  some  abstract  philo- 
sophers.     Philosophy,   alas!    with   a  few 
honorable  exceptions,  has  but  too  often  lent 
its  aid,  by  its  subtleties  and  refinements,  to 
controvert  the  plainest  truths,  to  check  the 
voice  of  unsophisticated  reason,  and  to  ob- 
scure the  light  which  God,  in  his  works,  in 
his  providence,  and  in  his  moral  govern- 
ment, has  shed  upon  this  most  noble  and  ex- 
alting of  truths.    Cicero,  however,  made  this 
universality  of  sentiment  a  principal  proof 
of  the  immortality  of  the  soul ;  and,  in  the 
last  hour  of  his  life,  Socrates  triumphed  in 
the  persuasion  of  its  truth.    When  the  vene- 
rable sage,  in  his  seventieth  year,  took  the 
poisoned  cup  to  which  he  had  been  con- 
demned by  an  ungrateful  country,  he  alone 
stood    unmoved,   while    his    friends   were 
weeping  around  him.     He  upbraided  their 
cowardice,  and  entreated  them  to  exercise 
a  manliness  worthy  of  the  patrons  of  virtue. 

18 


274  THE    IMMORTALITY 

"  It  would  indeed,"  said  he, "  be  inexcusable 
in  me  to  despise  death,  if  I  were  not  per- 
suaded that  it  will  conduct  me  into  the 
presence  of  the  gods,  the  righteous  govern- 
ors of  the  universe,  and  into  the  society  of 
just  and  good  men ;  but  I  draw  confidence 
from  the  hope,  that  something  of  man  re- 
mains after  death,  and  that  the  state  of  the 
good  will  be  much  better  than  that  of 
the  bad."  He  drank  the  deadly  cup,  and 
shortly  afterwards  expired.  "  A  story."  says 
Cicero, "  which  I  never  read  without  tears." 
It  is  this  belief  which  has  given  to  man,  in 
all  ages  and  times,  his  desire  for  reputa- 
tion and  fame  after  he  shall  have  been 
gathered  to  his  fathers.  It  is  this  which 
presses  upon  the  guilty  conscience  in  the 
hour  of  death,  and  makes  man  dread  what 
is  to  follow  him  beyond  the  grave.  It 
is  this  belief,  written  by  the  finger  of  God 
upon  the  heart,  which  we  find  in  almost  all 
nations  of  the  globe,  shadowed,  it  may  be, 


OF    THE    MIND.  275 

and  mingled  with  error,  fable,  and  supersti- 
tion, but  still  essentially  the  same,  —  a 
belief  in  an  existence  beyond  the  grave, 
whether  it  be  the  elysium  of  the  heathen, 
the  paradise  of  the  Mussulman,  or  the  fair 
fields  and  green  mountains  of  the  more 
simple  and  uncultivated. 

"  Lo  !  the  poor  Indian,  whose  iintutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  and  hears  him  in  the  wind : 
ffis  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk  or  milky  way ; 
Yet  simpler  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Beyond  the  cloud- topped  hiU,  an  humbler  heaven ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced ; 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste,  — 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold. 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold." 


276 


SPEECH    AT    A    MEETING    OF    THE    PORTSMOUTH 
UNITARIAN   ASSOCIATION. 

Before  the  vote  on  the  acceptance  of  the 
report  is  taken,  allow  me,  sir,  to  say  a  few 
words  upon  the  peculiar  character  and 
excellencies  of  the  religious  system  which 
it  is  the  object  of  this  Association,  through 
its  tracts,  to  diffuse.  And  the  first  of  its 
peculiar  features  which  I  shall  notice  is, 
that  it  is  perfectly  simple  and  intelligible. 
In  opposition  to  a  faith  full  of  mystery,  of 
superstition,  and  of  contradiction;  in  its 
principles  derogatory  to  the  character  of 
God,  investing  him  with  the  attributes 
of  an  unmerciful  despot,  rather  than  those 
of  a  kind,  a  universal,  and  a  benevolent 
Parent ;  a  faith  bewildering  and  debasing, 
and,  in  some  degree,  fatal  to  the  best  inte-p 
rests  of  man  as  a  moral  and  accountable 


UNITARIAN    CHRISTIANITY.  277 

being ;  which  throws  a  gloom  over  the  fair 
face  of  nature,  and  undervalues  the  works 
and  bounties  of  providence;  which  tends, 
moreover,  to  break  down  the  ties  of 
confidence,  of  affection,  and  of  sympathy, 
that  bind  man  to  man,  and  wed  us  to 
our  family  altars,  by  teaching  us  to  regard 
one  another,  our  parents,  our  friends,  our 
children,  as  monsters  of  iniquity  by  nature, 
incapable  of  a  single  virtuous  action,  or 
of  imbibing  a  single  virtuous  sentiment, 
cast  off,  and  reserved  for  the  day  of  indig- 
nation and  wrath,  unless  plucked  as  brands 
from  the  burning;  which  cripples  the  mind, 
and  renders  the  services  of  religion  the 
offerings  of  a  slavish  fear,  rather  than 
the  aspirations  of  a  holy  devotion,  and 
man  the  degraded  subject  of  indignation 
and  wrath,  rather  than  of  divine  compla- 
cency and  love,  —  I  say,  in  opposition  to  a 
faith  like  this,  we  have  espoused  one,  which, 
from  its  simplicity  and  ease  of  comprehen- 


278  THE    EXCELLENCIES    OF 

sion,  is  better  calculated  to  diffuse  the 
principles  of  Christianity,  to  aid  the  pre- 
valence of  an  enlarged,  enlightened,  and 
exalted  piety,  and  to  make  man  feel  pro- 
foundly its  promises  and  threatenings ; 
which  vindicates  and  exalts  the  character 
of  God,  as  a  most  tender  and  compassionate 
Father,  and  appeals  most  powerfully  to  the 
noble  and  ingenuous  principles  of  love, 
gratitude,  and  veneration  in  his  creatures ; 
a  faith  which  expands  the  mind  with  the 
most  noble  views,  and  animates  it  with 
consoling  hopes  under  every  trial.  And, 
believing  and  feeling,  as  we  ought,  its 
sacred  truths,  we  are,  of  all  men,  the  most 
inexcusable,  if,  with  heart  and  hand,  we 
put  not  forth  our  best  efforts  to  promote 
and  extend  them.  It  is  a  principle  with 
us,  that  religion,  to  be  useful,  must  be  sim- 
ple, and  perfectly  intelligible  to  all ;  it  is  a 
fundamental  axiom  with  us,  that  all  re- 
vealed truths  are  in  conformity  with  the 


UNITARIAN    CHRISTIANITY.  279 

principles  of  right  reason,  and  consistent 
with  one  another,  and  that  it  is  impossible 
they  should  be  either  irrational  or  contra- 
dictory to  one  another.  Hence,  our  faith 
is  founded  upon  the  plain  and  obvious 
meaning  of  Scripture,  and  is  divested  of 
what  we  consider  the  corruptions,  dogmas, 
and  superstitions,  which  the  inventions  of 
men,  and  ages  of  darkness,  have  heaped 
around  it.  We  believe  in  no  mysterious 
revelations,  in  no  creeds  or  confessions  of 
faith,  other  than  are  found  in  the  simplicity 
of  the  gospel.  The  Bible,  and  not  the 
artificial  exactions  of  human  invention, 
the  Bible  alone,  we  hold  to  be  our  formu- 
lary, our  creed,  our  Westminster  Catechism, 
to  be  read  and  understood  by  the  aid  of  the 
reason  which  God  has  given  us,  and  whose 
highest  office  it  is  to  search  and  investigate 
his  revealed  will.  By  the  right  use  of  rea- 
son in  reading,  and  taking  the  tenor  and 
the  natural  import  of  the  Scriptures,  and 


280  THE    EXCELLENCIES    OF 

explaining  what  is  dark  and  mysterious  by 
what  is  simple  and  plain,  we  have  gathered 
from  them,  we  trust,  a  purer  faith  and  a 
more  perfect  rule  of  life.  Hence  we  believe 
not  in  the  Trinity,  because  it  contradicts 
the  fair  and  liberal  construction  of  ninety- 
nine  parts  in  a  hundred  of  the  Scriptures ; 
because  the  word  itself  is  nowhere  to  be 
found,  and,  at  most,  is  but  an  inference  from 
here  and  there  some  obscure  passages,  and 
that,  too,  by  calling  forth  the  most  subtle 
and  metaphysical  deductions  of  that  very 
reason,  the  use  of  which  its  advocates  so 
much  decry  in  the  explanation  of  divine 
truth.  So,  also,  we  reject  the  doctrine  of 
total  depravity,  as  being  in  contradiction  to 
what  we  know  of  ourselves  and  of  the  mer- 
ciful attributes  of  the  Deity,  and  as  nowhere 
explicitly  revealed  ;  and  of  the  atonement, 
as  commonly  defined,  as  abhorrent  to  every 
principle  of  justice  and  mercy,  in  making 
the  innocent  suffer  for  the  guilty,  and  ab- 


UNITARIAN    CHRISTIANITY. 


281 


solving  us  from  personal  responsibility. 
Thus,  also,  we  reject  the  doctrines  of  elec- 
tion, of  final  perseverance,  of  irresistible 
grace,  and  so  on  of  all  the  doctrines  of  Cal- 
vinism, to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

Indeed,  we  believe  all  the  doctrines  of 
Christianity  essential  to  salvation  to  be  ex- 
tremely simple ;  so  plain  that  he  who  runs 
may  read ;  that  the  wayfaring  man,  though 
a  fool,  cannot  err  therein ;  and  admirably 
comprised  in  the  language  of  Scripture, 
in  faith  in  God,  and  in  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  as  an  all-sufficient  Saviour.  Not 
but  that  there  are  abstruse  passages  of  dif- 
ficult solution,  and  some  even  beyond  our 
comprehension.  These,  however,  if  they 
cannot  be  explained  by  what  is  obvious  and 
clear,  we  leave,  as  of  no  practical  impor- 
tance, and  to  be  revealed  at  the  great  day, 
when  we  shall  see  as  we  are  seen,  and 
know  as  we  are  known. 

But,  while  we  believe  in  one  Supreme 


282 


THE    EXCELLENCIES    OF 


God  alone,  we  reject  not  the  Saviour,  as 
we  have  been  unjustly  accused.  We  reject 
not  the  divinity  of  his  mission.  We  con- 
sider all  his  commands  as  coming  from 
God,  and  receive  his  promises  and  threat- 
enings  as  if  spoken  by  Jehovah  himself. 
And,  while  we  rely  on  his  death,  in  a 
moral  point  of  view,  as  a  necessary  part  of 
the  glorious  and  merciful  plan  to  effect  our 
deliverance,  we  ascribe  also,  in  opposition 
to  others,  a  like  efficacy  to  all  parts  of  his 
eventful  life  and  character,  as  his  example, 
death,  resurrection,  and  his  mediatorial 
office  at  the  right  hand  of  God.  In  reject- 
ing, too,  the  doctrines  of  election  as  un- 
merciful, depravity  as  cruel,  and  the  final 
condemnation  of  all,  unless  plucked  by  an 
irresistible  decree  as  brands  from  the  burn- 
ing, as  unscriptural,  and  subversive  of  ac- 
countability, we  reject  not,  as  has  been 
unjustly  said  of  us,  the  doctrine  of  a  future 
and  righteous  retribution,  —  believing,  as 


UNITARIAN    CHRISTIANITY.  283 

much  as  do  our  opponents,  that  the  way  of 
the  transgressor  is  hard,  and  that  without 
holiness  no  man  shall  see  the  Lord. 

It  is  obvious,  then,  from  what  has  been 
said,  that  our  religion  is  a  religion  of  the 
heart  rather  than  of  the  head,  a  religion  of 
practice  rather  than  of  speculation. 

Another  feature  of  the  principles  of  the 
system  we  profess  to  believe  is  the  bene- 
volent and  charitable  spirit  it  breathes.  In 
opposition  to  that  exclusive  system  of  faith 
which  consigns  over  to  final  condemnation 
and  ruin  all  who  differ  from  its  doctrines, 
and  cannot  subscribe  to  its  particular  for- 
mularies of  belief,  it  inculcates  charity  and 
good -will  to  all,  of  every  sect  and  name, 
however  widely  they  differ  in  dogmas,  pro- 
vided they  exhibit  the  spirit  of  their  Mas- 
ter, and  manifest  in  their  characters  that 
they  have  drunk  of  the  waters  of  life. 

Still  another  feature  of  our  faith  is  its 
higher   moral   tendency,   and   its   superior 


284  THE    EXCELLENCIES    OF 

adaptation  to  diffuse  the  grand  principles 
of  Christianity.  We  must  be  aware,  that, 
on  this  point,  our  opponents  have  assailed 
us  with  the  utmost  virulence  and  bitter- 
ness, as  if  our  faith  were  opposed  to  every 
principle  of  Christianity,  and  our  best  deeds 
but  filthy  rags.  Good  done  by  an  Unita- 
rian is  no  longer  good,  and  his  virtues  but 
shining  sins.  To  this,  however,  we  oppose 
the  purity  of  their  faith,  and  the  practice  of 
their  lives,  —  asking  them  to  confute  the 
one  by  candid  and  scriptural  arguments, 
and  to  discredit  the  other  by  instituting  any 
comparisons  they  may  please.  Not  that 
we  would  arrogate  to  ourselves  a  high  and 
exalted  virtue,  or  place  our  feeble  piety 
above  that  of  our  neighbors ;  for,  after  all, 
we  must  acknowledge  ourselves  but  unpro- 
fitable servants  and  sinners  in  the  sight  of 
God.  But  let  them  compare  church  with 
church,  city  with  city,  where  these  opposite 
beliefs  prevail,  and  we  fear  not  the  result 


UNITARIAN    CHRISTIANITY.  285 

of  the  investigation.  We  point  to  a  neigh- 
boring city  and  to  New  England,  where 
liberal  principles  were  first  planted  in  onr 
country,  and  where  they  have  grown  and 
flourished  to  an  almost  incredible  extent 
within  the  last  twenty  years,  and  then  to 
the  orthodox  cities  of  the  South  and  the 
orthodox  countries  of  Europe,  and  ask 
where  will  you  find  most  sobriety  and 
good  order  and  morality,  most  of  the  bene- 
volent virtues,  most  attention  to  the  sab- 
bath, and  the  institutions  of  religion ;  in  a 
word,  we  fearlessly  ask,  where  will  you 
find  the  most  piety?  We  fear  not  the 
result  of  such  an  inquiry.  If  piety  and 
religion  are  not  to  be  found  in  New  Eng- 
land, they  do  not  exist  in  the  world ;  yes, 
in  New  England,  the  centre,  too,  of  liberal 
Christianity.  That  our  faith  is  better 
adapted  to  diffuse  the  grand  principles  of 
Christianity,  I  cannot  doubt.  The  time  is 
coming,  if  it  has  not  already  come,  when 


286     EXCELLENCIES    OP    UNITARIANISM. 

men  will  have  a  simple  and  intelligible 
religion,  or  no  religion  at  all.  The  popular 
creeds  have  so  little  to  enlighten  the  under- 
standing and  to  engage  the  affections,  that 
some  have  turned  from  them  with  disgust, 
and  have  sunk  into  downright  skepticism. 
They  suppose  that  the  advocates  of  Chris- 
tianity will  at  least  report  it  fairly,  and  there 
is  so  much  of  absurdity  on  the  face  of  this 
report  that  they  reject  it  at  once ;  they  come 
very  naturally  to  the  conclusion,  that  God 
would  never  reveal  to  men  doctrines  which 
no  human  powers  could  comprehend ;  and 
thus  they  set  aside  the  whole  as  a  delusion, 
and  seek  only  for  arguments  to  disprove  a 
deception  which  they  think  is  practised 
upon  the  world.  Yes,  I  could  point  you 
to  more  than  one  man,  who,  from  the 
absurdities  and  false  notions  which  have 
been  pressed  upon  them  by  the  leaders  in 
religion,  have  sunk  into  the  cold  regions  of 
infidelity. 


287 


SPEECH    AT    A    MEETING    IN    BEHALF    OF    THE 

ESTABLISHMENT   OF  A   STATE   LUNATIC 

ASYLUM. 

Mr.  Chairman,  —  I  am  happy  to  have  an 
opportunity,  in  common  with  others,  to  raise 
my  voice,  and  to  lend  my  influence,  hum- 
ble as  it  may  be,  to  the  promotion  of  the 
object  which  has  called  together,  on  this 
occasion,  so  many  of  the  benevolently  dis- 
posed of  our  State.  And  after  the  eloquent 
and  pathetic  recitals  we  have  had  from 
the  lips  of  gentlemen  this  evening,  whose 
heart  does  not  almost  bleed,  and  whose 
sympathies  are  not  deeply  moved  and 
strongly  enlisted  in  favor  of  the  wretehed 
maniac,  whose  misfortune  it  is  to  have  a 
mind  in  ruins,  his  godlike  faculties  levelled 
with  the  dust,  and  reduced  by  the  withering 
influence  of  this  awful  visitation  to  a  level 


288  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

with  the  beasts  of  the  field,  on  whom  the 
bright  beams  of  reason  never  dawned ; 
nay,  to  a  more  forlorn  condition  than  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  —  consigned  to  chains 
and  dungeons,  not  unfrequently  parcelled 
out,  and  subjected  to  the  care  of  mercenary 
keepers,  who  would  be  scarcely  tolerated 
to  look  after  the  felon,  the  murderer,  or  the 
most  depraved  of  the  community?  And 
how  much  more  poignant  and  painful  must 
be  these  emotions,  when  we  reflect,  that, 
bating  a  small  minority  rendered  insane  by 
intemperance  and  vice,  they  have  been 
struck  down  promiscuously  from  the  ranks 
of  the  good,  the  great,  the  virtuous,  and  the 
brave ;  and  that,  in  an  age  of  philanthropic 
exertion,  when  land  and  sea  have  been  tra- 
versed to  break  the  fetters  of  the  oppressed, 
even  to  extend  comfort  to  the  blood-stained 
convict,  —  in  this  State,  for  ages,  —  ever 
since  its-  discovery,  —  in  this  boasted  land 
of  liberty,  has  the  cold  and  loathsome  dun- 


A    STATE    LUNATIC    ASYLUM.  289 

geon  of  the  guiltless  wretched  maniac  been 
passed  by,  and  he  doomed  to  clank  his 
chains  in  hopeless  captivity,  condemned  as 
no  criminal  ever  was  condemned,  and  suf- 
fering as  no  criminal  ever  did  suffer ! 

Sir,  the  cases  of  distress  and  misery  in- 
flicted upon  this  unhappy  portion  of  our 
race,  which  have  been  cited  this  evening 
and  spread  before  the  public  in  the  news- 
papers of  the  day,  were  they  not  attested 
by  respectable  witnesses,  would  be  almost 
too  much  even  for  the  lovers  of  the  mar- 
vellous to  put  any  confidence  in.  But,  sir, 
they  are  no  fictions,  —  they  are  sad,  sad 
realities.  So  far  are  they  from  being 
painted  in  too  glowing  colors, —  so  far  from 
being  overstated,  I  believe  that  not  one 
half  has  been  told.  My  own  personal  ob- 
servation will  more  than  corroborate  them ;. 
but  I  cannot  go  into  details. 

We  would,  however,  by  no  means  accuse 
those  who  have  had  the  care  of  the  insane 

19 


290  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

of  designed  oppression  or  wanton  cruelty 
towards  them.  The  treatment  they  have 
received  has  originated,  undoubtedly  in  a 
great  measure,  from  the  terror  of  their  friends 
and  keepers,  and  from  an  opinion  that  their 
condition  was  irremediable  and  hopeless  ; 
and  irremediable  and  hopeless,  because  in- 
sanity has  been  considered  (and  is  no  doubt 
now  so  considered  by  some)  as  a  disease 
of  the  spiritual  nature  of  man,  wholly 
independent  of  his  material  nature,  and 
therefore  entirely  beyond  the  control  of 
material  remedies.  The  time  has  been, 
when  to  have  traced  insanity  to  a  bodily 
origin,  —  to  have  fixed  upon  its  true  resi- 
dence in  a  material  organ,  the  brain, — 
would  have  been  considered  as  confounding 
spirit  with  matter,  as  something  worse 
than  madness,  and  its  promugation  branded 
as  advocating  the  grossest  form  of  infi- 
delity. But,  happily  for  humanity,  truth 
and  reason  are  as  imperishable  as  the  mind, 


A    STATE    LUNATIC    ASYLUM.  291 

and  under  their  influence,  cheerless  dogma- 
tism and  false  doctrines  and  prejudices  are 
rapidly  passing  away ;  and  it  is  now  clear- 
ly seen,  and  generally  acknowledged,  that 
it  is  the  old  doctrine  that  sickness  and 
disease  and  insanity  can  reach  the  mind 
itself,  —  the  immaterial  principle,  —  which 
is  fraught  with  all  the  dangers  of  infidelity, 
and  of  subverting  the  soul's  heaven-born 
principle,  —  its  glorious  immortality.  Now 
that  the  public  eye  has  been  opened  to  the 
subject,  it  is  clearly  discerned  that  sickness 
and  disease  cannot  reach  the  mind  itself,  — 
that  it  is  a  derangement  of  the  material  in- 
struments, the  bodily  organs,  through  which 
it  develops  itself,  that  occasions  its  per- 
turbed and  insane  manifestations.  To  prove 
that  the  mind  itself  can  be  reached  by  dis- 
ease would  be  to  cast  doubt  on  its  immor- 
tality. If  it  can  sicken,  it  can  die.  This  is 
one  instance,  amongst  many,  in  which  erro- 
neous theories  lead  to  bad,  and,  in  regard  to 


292  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

the  treatment  of  the  insane  at  least,  to  inhu- 
man practices.  And  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude 
do  we  owe  (whether  their  theories  in  all  their 
minute  distinctions  be  true  or  not)  to  Gall 
and  Spurzheim  and  their  coadjutors,  for 
clearing  away  the  rubbish  that  has  envelop- 
ed the  philosophy  of  the  human  mind,  and 
giving  us  clear  and  definite  views  of  its  con- 
nection with  matter,  and  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  the  healthy  action  of  the  latter  to  its 
right  and  full  development.  Particularly 
are  we  indebted  to  them  for  their  delicate 
and  skilful  dissections  of  the  brain,  demon- 
strating beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt 
that  all  the  varied  phases  of  insanity  may 
be  traced  to  some  lesion  or  diseased  ac- 
tion of  that  important  organ.  Until  their 
day,  this  was  a  difficult  point  to  be  distin- 
guished in  anatomy.  So  satisfactorily, 
however,  has  the  discovery  been  rendered, 
that  Spurzheim,  in  one  of  his  works,  makes 
the  assertion,  that  a  case  of  insanity,  how- 


A  STATE  LUNATIC  ASYLUM.     293 

ever  mild,  could  not  be  brought,  in  which 
he  could  not  show  its  marks  indelibly  im- 
pressed upon  the  brain,  or  rather  growing 
out  of  its  diseased  action.  "We  owe  to  them 
also  the  very  best,  the  most  scientific  books 
upon  this  awful  scourge.  Indeed,  so  en- 
tirely is  it  now  settled  that  mania  is  a 
disease  of  the  body,  and  to  be  treated  like 
all  other  diseases  of  the  bodily  organs,  and 
not  as  a  curse  of  Heaven,  a  possession 
by  demoniacs  or  evil  and  malignant  spi- 
rits, that  the  whole  system  of  punish- 
ment and  torture  wherewith  to  exorcise 
them  has  been  banished  as  worthy  only  of 
a  superstitious  and  cruel  age ;  and  we 
should  as  soon  think  now  of  loading  the 
gouty  or  the  paralytic  with  obloquy  and 
reproach,  and  of  curing  them  by  the  ap- 
plication of  the  bastinado,  as  of  treating  the 
maniac  with  the  neglect,  and  often  positive 
cruelty,  formerly  practised. 

Two  things,  then,  have  we  arrived   at 


294  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

conclusively,  which  are  of  immense  impor- 
tance. The  first  is  a  correct  theory  of  the 
disease  of  insanity;  and  the  second,  the 
certainty  that  it  is  under  the  control  of  reme- 
dial agents  as  much  as  are  other  diseases, 
and,  as  experience  has  amply  tested,  quite 
as  successfully  treated,  if  not  more  so,  than 
are  most  other  maladies  to  which  the  body 
is  exposed.  But  under  what  mode,  and  in 
what  situations,  shall  the  insane  be  placed, 
to  ensure  their  most  successful  restora- 
tion to  sanity  and  health?  We  answer, 
that  the  best  treatment  to  be  adopted  is 
directly  the  reverse  of  what  has  been  prose- 
cuted heretofore.  The  iron  that  has  pierced 
the  maniac's  soul  must  be  withdrawn ;  the 
sh^ickles  that  have  galled  his  limbs  must 
be  broken ;  his  dungeon-house,  into  whose 
dreary  recess  the  light  of  heaven  never  en- 
ters, and  the  voice  of  kindness  never  reaches, 
must  be  demolished,  and  give  place  to  a 
well-ordered  home,  where  comfort  and  kind- 


A    STATE    LUNATIC    ASYLUM.  295 

ness  may  usurp  the  place  of  filthy  misery 
and  of  savage  brutality,  —  where,  instead 
of  being  thrust  forth  from  the  world  as  a 
loathsome  leper,  he  can  be  gladdened  with 
the  accents  of  mercy,  his  irritated  feelings 
soothed,  his  despondency  encouraged,  — 
and  where,  when  his  lucid  intervals  return 
to  him,  he  can  look  up  with  confidence  to 
those  who  minister  to  him,  with  the  convic- 
tion that,  when  his  lights  have  been  extin- 
guished, and  he  lies  helmless  and  hopeless 
upon  the  surge,  there  is  a  skilful  hand  pre- 
pared to  rescue  him  from  the  tempest,  or,  if 
unable  to  save,  anxious  to  assuage  and  to 
soothe  him. 

Such  a  place  is  in  every  thing  the  reverse 
of  what  the  insane  have  been  accustomed 
to  in  our  State.  It  is  an  Asylum  for  the 
the  Insane,  in  imitation  of  those  which 
have  been  founded  in  other  States,  particu- 
larly of  the  one  at  Worcester,  which  we 
have  now  assembled  to  petition  our  poll- 


296  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

tical  fathers  to  grant  for  the  sake  of  suffer- 
ing humanity. 

I  will  not  exhaust  your  patience  so  much 
as  to  go  into  the  details  of  the  advantages 
likely  to  accrue  from  such  an  institution. 
They  have  been  already  eloquently  and 
faithfully  portrayed.  Suffice  it  to  say,  if 
it  offered  no  better  encouragement  for  the 
recovery  of.  the  insane  than  do  their  pre- 
sent abodes,  humanity  would  be  amply 
remunerated  in  the  restoration  of  comfort 
which  they  would  enjoy.  But  encourage- 
ment of  recovery,  beyond  the  most  san- 
guine expectations,  is  authorized  in  the 
reports.  I  find,  on  examination,  that  in  one 
instance,  of  forty  cases,  all  were  sent  home 
well :  —  this  is  unusual.  In  another,  a 
Quaker-establishment,  of  one  hundred  and 
forty  received,  eighteen  only  remained  un- 
improved. I  hold  in  my  hand  the  report  of 
the  Worcester  Asylum,  which  is  full  of  en- 
couragement.    The  amount  of  it  is,  that,  of 


A  STATE  LUNATIC  ASYLUM.     297 

the  recent  cases,  eighty  out  of  a  hundred 
have  been  cured,  while  of  the  old  cases 
one-third  of  the  whole. 

Most  fervently  do  I  hope  that  we  shall 
succeed  in  this  noble  enterprise.  But  at 
least  let  us  deserve  success  by  the  immola- 
tion of  every  sectional  prejudice,  of  every 
personal  preference.  Let  no  selfish,  polluted 
hand  be  uplifted  in  hindrance  of  this  noble 
object.  Let  us  remember  what  has  been 
said  of  virtuous,  disinterested  actions,  that 
every  sacrifice  made  upon  the  altar  of 
general  good  becomes  a  treasure  profitably 
invested,  yielding  interest  to  all  future 
times.  Yes,  disinterested  actions  are  as 
beacons  which  men  light  up  along  the 
course  of  life. 


298 


SPEECH  AT  AN  ANNUAL  MEETING  OF  THE  PORTS- 
MOUTH SEAMEN'S  FRIEND  SOCIETY. 

I  AM  glad  to  hear  from  the  report  which 
has  been  read,  as  well  as  to  know  from 
personal  experience,  that  this  great  though 
unobtrusive  charity  (the  Seaman's  Home) 
is  still  continued  in  existence,  and  is  work- 
ing, though  noiselessly,  the  great  good  it 
was  designed  to  accomplish.  I  call  it  a 
great  charity,  for  I  know  of  but  few  of  the 
charities  of  the  day  which  surpass  it  in  uti- 
lity ;  and  surely  I  may  term  it  unobtrusive, 
for  so  silently  and  noiselessly  has  it  been 
accomplishing  its  purposes,  that  I  doubt 
not  'there  are  very  many  here  present  who 
have  scarcely  heard  the  name  of  the  Sea- 
man's Home,  and  much  less  have  become 
acquainted  with  its  beneficent  designs,  its 
deeds    of    mercy    and    kindness,    though 


THE    seamen's    friend   SOCIETY.       299 

wrought  in  the  very  midst  of  us.  I  speak 
of  this  as  a  great  charity,  designed  for  a 
large  class  of  our  fellow-creatures,  —  a  long- 
suffering,  long-neglected,  and  much-abused 
class;  so  degraded  indeed,  till  within  a 
short  period,  that  the  sailor  at  the  North, 
though,  in  a  certain  sense,  enjoying  per- 
sonal liberty,  was  often  sunk  as  low  as 
the  slave  at  the  South ;  not  restrained,  to 
be  sure,  like  the  last,  by  the  manacle  and 
the  chain,  and  doomed  to  drag  out  life 
exposed  to  the  perpetual  lash  of  the  task- 
master ;  but  quite  as  degraded  in  ignorance, 
his  mind  quite  as  much  in  bondage,  and, 
like  him,  occupying  no  higher  station,  nor 
calling  forth  any  more  sympathy,  than  is 
bestowed  upon  the  vilest  things  of  creation, 
the  most  grovelling  beasts  of  the  field. 
And  yet  what  has  not  been  done  for  the 
slave !  What  efforts  have  been  made, 
what  vast  enginery  of  private  and  asso- 
ciated effort  has  been  called  forth,  to  ame- 


300 


SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 


liorate  his  condition!  Many,  very  many, 
have  been  found  amongst  us  ready  to  pour 
forth  their  treasures,  nay,  almost  their  blood, 
like  water,  if  so  be  they  could  release  him 
from  the  bondage  under  which  he  is  groan- 
ing; and  however  much  they  may  be 
mistaken  in  some  of  the  means  they  are 
taking  in  behalf  of  this  cause,  still  I  can- 
not but  respect  their  motives,  as  honorable 
to  the  cause  of  benevolence,  honorable  to 
human  nature;  and  could  I,  consistently 
with  justice,  consistently  with  the  peace 
and  happiness  of  both  master  and  slave  (for 
we  are  bound  to  consult  the  interests  of 
all),  restore,  by  my  single  fiat,  liberty  to 
every  son  and  daughter  of  Adam,  most 
cheerfully  would  I  do  it ;  nay,  so  much  do 
I  hate  the  very  name  of  slavery,  that  I 
sometimes  think,  did  it  depend  upon  me, 
I  would  strike  off  every  chain  and  every 
fetter,  —  and  that,  too,  regardless  of  con- 
sequences.     On   this   matter,  however,   I 


THE    seamen's    friend    SOCIETY.      301 

may   not  dwell:   upon  this   subject   men 
may  honestly  differ. 

But  here,  about  the  almost  worse  than 
slavery  of  the  North,  —  the  debasing  igno- 
rance, the  suffering  and  degradation,  of  the 
poor  sailor,  —  there  cannot  be  an  honest 
difference  of  opinion.  All  that  we  can 
plead  in  extenuation  of  his  treatment  is, 
that,  amid  the  multiplicity  of  other  calls 
upon  our  sympathy,  he  has  been  most 
strangely  overlooked,  most  strangely  for- 
gotten. Yes,  most  strangely  has  he  been 
forgotten !  Every  sentiment  of  benevolence 
and  of  gratitude  should  have  forbidden  this 
our  coldness  and  neglect.  For  what  has 
he  not  done  for  us  ?  What  comfort,  beyond 
the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  do  we  enjoy, 
and  do  not,  in  part  at  least,  owe  to  him  ? 
"What  have  we,  beyond  the  mere  productions 
of  the  ground  we  tread  upon,  which  has 
not  been  brought  to  us  by  his  unremitting 
care  and  toil  ?    If  the  farmer  and  the  laborer 


302  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

are  the  bone  and  muscle,  most  assuredly 
sailors  are  the  very  sinews  of  our  country. 
Every  luxury  we  enjoy,  every  advantage 
resulting  from  foreign  intercourse,  every 
new  accession  of  light  and  knowledge 
from  abroad  to  the  common  stock,  all  the 
facilities  of  intercourse,  all  the  blessings 
flowing  from  a  widely-extended  commerce, 
the  perpetuation  and  extension  of  Chris- 
tianity itself,  with  the  virtues  emanating 
from  intellects  and  hearts  expanded  by 
means  of  intercourse  from  abroad,  —  bene- 
fits that  have  no  limit  but  the  great 
globe  itself,  —  all,  —  all  these  blessings 
flow  from  his  unremitted  exertions,  his  un- 
daunted courage,  and  incessant  sufferings. 
Yes,  sir,  sufferings.  And  what  does  he 
not  'suffer?  A  sailor's  life,  it  is  said,  is 
a  dog's  life.  It  is  worse:  a  sailor's  life, 
as  it  has  heretofore  been,  commences  in 
suff"ering  and  ends  in  suffering,  nothing 
but  suffering.    He  is  often  but  poorly  fed 


THE    seamen's    friend    SOCIETY.       303 

and  clad,  and  entirely  uncared  for  except 
to  make  the  most  of  him  to  the  sacrifice  of 
every  comfort.  He  ventures  upon  the  peril- 
ous deep,  it  may  be,  exposed  to  the  biting 
cold  of  winter,  the  peltings  of  the  pitiless 
storm,  the  fiery  bolts  from  heaven,  the 
angry  surge  lashing  upon  an  iron-bound 
coast;  or  to  a  deadly  climate;  or  to  the 
still  more  deadly  influences  of  foreign  asso- 
ciations, corruptions,  and  vices;  and,  it 
may  be,  escaping  these,  homeward-bound, 
with  new  aspirations  and  hopes  and  reso- 
lutions, his  eye  no  sooner  catches  the 
wished-for  port,  than  his  ship  is  surrounded 
by  harpies  to  allure  him  into  their  polluted 
dens ;  and  what  wonder  is  it,  that,  with  no 
generous  associations  to  aid  him,  no  kindly 
hand  extended  to  protect  him,  no  house  of 
refuge  opened  to  receive  him,  he  falls  an 
easy  prey,  and  is  again  seduced  into  these 
haunts  of  vice  and  profligacy,  where,  soon 
sponged  and  fleeced  to  his  last  cent,  he  has 


304  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

no   other  resource   than   a  jail,  an   alms- 
house, or  another  voyage  ? 

Now,  sir,  the  remedy  for  these  miseries 
and  sufferings  of  the  poor  sailor  has  been 
found  in  the  provision  of  suitable  boarding- 
houses   upon    strictly   temperate   and   vir- 
tuous  principles.      They   are   called    Sea- 
men's Homes,  and  in  many  of  our  large 
cities  they  have  been  wonderfully  success- 
ful.    We  have  one  here,  which  has  been  in 
existence   about    three    years,  but    of    so 
modest  and  unpretending  a  character,  that 
the  good  it  has  done  is,  I  fear,  but  little 
known.     And  that  I  may  diffuse  a  know- 
ledge of  its  character,  and  may  bear  my 
testimony  to  the  worth  of  its  keeper,  is  the 
reason  why  I  appear  here.     It  is  kept  by  a 
matron,  who  seems  to  have  been  made  and 
raised  up  by  Providence  for  the  very*pur- 
pose.  With  the  greatest  energy  of  character, 
she  unites  the  greatest  kindness  and  gentle- 
ness ;  and  it  is  surely  to  the  credit  of  these 


THE    seamen's    friend    SOCIETY.       305 

rough  sons  of  the  ocean,  that  they  are  more 
awed  by  the  light  of  her  benignant  eye 
beaming  upon  them,  than  they  would  be 
by  the  dark  frowns  and  coarse  threats  of 
the  would-be  lords  of  creation ;  and  to  their 
credit  be  it  spoken,  that,  though  surrounded 
by  persons  of  all  descriptions  and  from  dif- 
ferent climes,  she,  an  unprotected  widow, 
confiding  in  the  goodness  of  her  cause,  and 
relying  upon  no  other  weapons  of  defence 
than  those  of  kindness  and  love,  —  to  their 
credit  be  it  spoken,  and  to  that  of  her  tact 
and  her  gentle  manners,  she  has  rarely,  if 
ever,  been  assailed  by  the  tongue  of  rude- 
ness, or  even  of  impoliteness.  The  secret 
of  her  success  is  her  devotion  to  the  cause, 
her  entirely  disinterested  love  of  doing  the 
sailors  good.  In  the  midst  of  them,  she 
feels  herself  as  a  mother  in  the  midst  of  her 
children,  delighted  and  delighting ;  and  by 
that  appellation  have  I  known  them  often 
to  salute  her.  She  is  not  there  for  hire  or 
20 


306  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

emolument,  as  you  will  readily  believe, 
when  you  are  informed  that  she  receives 
but  a  dollar  a  week  for  her  services.  She 
feels  it  to  be  the  path  of  service  in  which 
Providence  has  directed  her  to  walk,  to 
deviate  from  which  would  be  a  dereliction 
of  duty.  How  much  good  she  has  done 
will  never  be  known  till  the  final  disclosure 
of  her  good  deeds  in  the  future  world.  That 
it  has  been  great  I  have  personal  know- 
ledge, in  the  assurance  of  which  I  may  say, 
that  all  who  have  been  with  her  once  inva- 
riably come  again ;  and,  at  this  very  time, 
she  has  two  upon  a  visit  to  whom  she  had 
shown  great  acts  of  kindness.  One,  feeling 
himself  sick  upon  his  return  from  a  voyage 
very  many  miles  distant,  took  the  stage  and 
cars  last  week,  and  has  hurried  down  to 
be  under  the  kind  care  of  her  who  had 
done  so  much  for  him.  The  other,  I  be- 
lieve, is  now  present,  and,  did  his  modesty 
permit,  would  bear  witness  to  the  zeal  and 


THE    seamen's    friend    SOCIETY.       307 

kindness  of  her  of  whom  I  speak.  He  was 
the  one  who  arrived  here  in  the  burning 
ship  three  years  ago,  was  struck  down  by  a 
bolt  from  heaven,  and  brought  to  her  house 
in  the  most  forlorn  condition  possible.  And 
never  could  a  mother  have  been  kinder 
to  her  child  than  she  was  to  him,  watch- 
ing over  him  when  undergoing  the  pangs 
of  a  most  excruciating  operation,  by  night 
and  by  day  soothing  him  with  her  con- 
soling words,  infusing  into  his  mind  reli- 
gious instruction  and  principle,  and  pre- 
paring him  for  the  death  which  seemed 
inevitably  to  await  him,  and  to  which  he 
said  he  had  brought  himself  to  submit. 
But,  death  being  averted,  she  then  devoted 
herself  assiduously  to  prepare  him  for  life ; 
as  it  was  obvious,  that,  maimed  as  he  was, 
he  must  enter  upon  a  new  course  of  indus- 
try. In  a  short  time,  she  had  him  taught 
to  read,  and  write,  and  keep  accounts,  and 
took  great  interest  in  his  learning  a  useful 


308  SPEECH    IN    BEHALF    OF 

trade.  And  she  has  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing,  that,  through  her  instrumentality, 
he  is  now  an  altered  man.  From  being 
a  thriftless  sailor,  always  spending  as  he 
gained,  he  is  now  a  worthy  citizen  of  Bos- 
ton, keeps  a  clothing-store  there,  is  entirely 
contented  and  happy,  and,  to  my  salutation 
yesterday,  replied  that  the  most  fortunate 
event  that  had  ever  happened  to  him  was 
that  he  had  lost  his  leg,  and  had  fallen  into 
so  kind  and  faithful  hands. 

Such,  sir,  is  our  Seaman's  Home,  but 
little  known ;  and  such  its  keeper,  still  less 
known.  But,  sir,  it  is  languishing  for  want 
of  funds ;  for  it  is  not  sufficiently  patronized 
to  support  itself.  We  ask  now,  and  rely 
upon  the  benevolent,  for  assistance.  But 
still  more  would  we  call  upon  the  merchants 
and  captains  to  extend  their  influence  to 
this  house.  They  can  do  much  if  they  will. 
They  can  help  those  who  are  laboring  in 
this  holy  work  to  elevate  a  class  of  men 


THE    seamen's    friend    SOCIETY.       309 

who  have  been  long  neglected  and  for- 
saken, and  who  require  but  an  act  of  kind- 
ness, in  bringing  them  under  good  influences 
when  on  shore,  to  make  them  honorable, 
useful,  and  happy  citizens. 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  688  98 


